There's a house I pass a few times a week on my morning walks where I spent time one summer. It may have been a month or a week, in those days when time expanded or contracted depending on my state of intoxication. In any event, it was my meth cook lover's ex's home, where he'd been asked to house-sit while she was away caring for a family member. I'm fairly certain she told him "No monkey business," but within hours of her departure, a pop-up lab was taking shape in the basement.
What I remember is a darkened living room, attempting to read Tarot by candlelight (I say "attempted" as I definitely read into the cards what I wanted to see - pain, separation, loss.) What I remember most of all, though, is the sound of bamboo leaves in the summer breeze. The house was surrounded by a lush screen of tall bamboo that made a peaceful, rustling sound with even the slightest wind. Those plants are long gone, but if I pause and close my eyes, I can almost hear them, all these years later.
Which is to say that there were beautiful moments even in the darkest of times. Even in the midst of mayhem, of (metaphorical) knock-down-drag-outs, the tiny part of me that was on the verge of being snuffed out completely, still, weakly, reached for life's beauty, whether in nature, a genuine smile, or that very quiet moment right before falling asleep when my soul whispered, "Maybe there is a better way." I will be forever grateful for that still, small voice that answered the phone and said, "OK" when my ex (the one who's death anniversary I just marked) called and said, "You need help, Jeanine."
Boy, did I need help. What I needed was you - not a lecture, not a scolding or a pleading, but you showing me the way, offering to take my hand. And, the idea that "our experience can benefit others" continues to show up, whether in a conversation with a newcomer, or life-on-life-terms stuff where something I've walked through loses its sting by sharing with another on a similar part of the path.
The women I gather with at Solstice have been meeting now for 19 years, so there is a continuity in what we share. This year we ranged in age from 48 to 77, with most in our 60's. What I noticed is that, when we talked about what we'd like to manifest or bring into the new year, nearly all of us simply expounded on "one day at a time." By this stage of the game, we've all had piles of evidence that we cannot see the future, that our plans and designs don't amount to much, that we cannot control another person or situation. I can be chagrined that it's taken so long to get to the point of acceptance, or I can simply say, "Thank you" for all the lessons along the way.
And one of the biggest lessons is, "You just never know." The son of a grade school acquaintance was killed in a car wreck a few weeks ago. I never met him and don't know her very well, but that shook me. Number one, I can't even imagine the heartbreak of losing a child to an accident, and two, the awful reminder that we and our loved ones leave the house, take a trip, go to work with absolutely no guarantee that we'll come safely home. I don't want to morbidly live as if each day is my last, but damn it, I also don't want to pretend any longer that my chapter in the story will go on forever. I will continue to tell people I love them, will pause in gratitude for another day sober, will continue my efforts to live from the heart.
Thinking of time left on the planet, I will say I'm not exactly ready for "Swedish Death Cleaning," and 'tis the season to declutter, to decide what of my possessions are important, which do I actually use, and what can I release? Are there lingering mindsets I can release or expand? How do I want to enter the new year, the calendar year in which I'll turn 70? (!)
Are there poignant moments you can recall from when you hit bottom? If you could hear it, what did the still, small voice have to say? What does it say now? How do you listen to your heart, especially amidst the clamor and chatter of the world? What might you release, actually or emotionally, as the new year begins?
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Thinking of a year-end inventory or a holiday gift for a sponsee? I've restocked my supply of the workbook "I've Been Sober a Long Time - Now What?" with 78 pages of topics, member's views, and processing questions. (See the Jan 13, 2023 post for a sample.) Available in PDF format ($12.95) for those of you outside the US (or who prefer that format) or hardcopy ($19.95 mailed to you). Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. You can order from the WEB VERSION of this page, payment link on top right. Note that the workbook is also available at Portland Area Intergroup at 825 NE 20th
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