Holding still

 "I lived when simply waiting was a large part of ordinary life: when we waited, gathered around a crackling radio, to hear the infinitely far-away voice of the king of England… I live now when we fuss if our computer can’t bring us everything we want instantly." Ursula LeGuin

I try to be mindful of society's push towards filling every minute, of hurry, hurry, hurry. I don't wear earbuds when out walking (trust me, I don't need another voice in my head) and when waiting in line, at the post office or grocery store, intentionally do not pull out my phone. Simply standing still is ok. I'll never forget an incarcerated man I worked with in treatment, telling me how, the last time he'd been "on the outs" (i.e. free) he'd gone to the mall and was appalled at people in the Food Court, all staring at their phones. "It was like they were zombies, Ms B!" he said, not too far off.

I'd be the last to say I don't appreciate the convenience of having the world's information at my fingertips, though I am grateful to have grown up in the age of encyclopedias and card catalogs, dictionaries and reference books (as kids, we favored the "D" encyclopedia volume for dolls and dogs). Sure, finding stuff out was sometimes challenging, but I liked having found something on my own, and making it my own by the search, reading, and maybe writing about it. It seems that these days, we don't need to know things - just how to ask Google.  OK, old person rant for the week!

I just picked up a new book, Still Life at Eighty - the next interesting thing, by Abigail Thomas. I used to slightly resent being a late Baby Boomer, realizing that most of the insights and ah-ha moments related to my generation had happened a few years prior to my coming up to the questions. Kind of like when an old-timer in AA would say, "You're right where you're supposed to be!" God, I hated that. It's my journey, you old fart! Don't tell me I'm supposed to be this confused! But, as time goes on, I'm grateful for those who've gone before, those slightly ahead on the path of life and/or recovery.  I've never been an old person before. I know what that looks like on the outside, but what does it feel like? 

Thomas writes about the present being interrupted by vivid memory, that human capability of living in two places at once - past and present. A friend has reminded me that the past, joys and sorrows, experiences and regrets, all transpired to create who we are today - of course I have memories, some stronger than others, some appearing in a wisp and some driving a bulldozer. Somewhere I read that when our bodies become frail, it is our memories that will sustain and entertain us, and I certainly have a lot of them. I'm so very grateful for years of solid recovery and positive memories, as well as the painful ones that remind me to stay on the path. 

During a breakup, probably twenty years ago now, my mother expressed her sadness at my difficult life, citing Dad's death, my divorce, another hard breakup, addiction. I was taken aback. Yes, I was sad/scared/overwhelmed by the current situation, but since getting sober, my life had been stellar, with college, travel, and great friends, finally coming into who I was supposed to be. I shared that with her, sad myself that what she saw was the darkness when I'd been living in the light for eighteen or so years at that point. Perception, focus - where do I point my attention today?

And here we are, October nearly over. Have I kept my vow to myself to be present, to be mindful and truly inhabit my days rather than whoosh on through? Kinda, sorta. It's been a full month, with travel, birthday, a half marathon, the little forehead procedure... and time seems to move quickly, though maybe less so when I'm paying attention. My elections work will be over next week, and Sunday we turn back the clocks so it will be dark here in the Pacific NW by 5pm. I don't mind the change of seasons, the cozy darkness, and the reminder of transition - from busy to less so, from daylight to darkness, from sunscreen to warm sweaters, from shivering denizen to happy, joyous and free. It look me a long time to realize that life is transition, subtle and not so subtle shifts in circumstance, as well as my internal thermometer. One day at a time turns out to be a gift, not an empty platitude.

Where do you place yourself in the "hurry-up" world? Are you able to step off the treadmill and relish the moments as they come? How do you fill the empty space when waiting in line? Whether you are pro or con the time change, how do you relax into the transition while taking care of yourself?

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The NOW WHAT workbook is 78 pages of topics and processing questions, great for solo exploration or in a small group. Go to the WEB VERSION of this blog page for the link on ordering (PDF for those outside the U.S., or hard copy mailed to you). Contact me at SoberLongTime@soberlongtime.com or shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. And a reminder that the workbook, is available at the Portland Area Intergroup at 825 NE 20th. for local folks.

One day at a time, now and always

 I was very happy to hear that the person I wrote about last week kept an appointment with an outpatient treatment provider, and is feeling a sense of relief. Such good news, and hopeful for the different options available. I often remember to be grateful that I got sober when I did, not having to face ice baths, asylums, or a lobotomy as a "cure." In the mid-1960's, my dad underwent shock treatment, with the erroneous thinking that if his depression was dealt with, he'd stop drinking. Funny enough (not actually funny), it was the opposite. When he quit drinking, his depression lifted. We haven't heard anything more from our friend, so they've either stopped drinking or not. What I've long been told is, "where there's life, there's hope." They know where we are, and who we are, so we can await their questions.

From personal experience, I do know there is something magical in picking up the phone, whether it's to make an appointment with a therapist, or talk with a friend or sponsor. It's that internal surrender, even if I haven't yet spoken it aloud, that triggers the cosmic exhale of dropping the rock of "figure it out," "I've got this," "I should be able to fix this myself." Asking for help is still not my initial reaction, but such a relief when I do.

I'm reading a rather dense book, A World Lit Only by Fire - the Medieval Mind and the Renaissance, by William Manchester - interesting to imagine difficult life in Europe in the Dark Ages. In discussing the hindsight signs that changes (the Renaissance) were ahead, when people had no frame of reference for the future. Manchester says, "Like all people at all times, they were confronted each day by the present, which always arrives in a promiscuous rush, with the significant, the trivial, the profound and the fatuous all tangled together" (p. 26). What a good reminder! In the space of a couple of hours, I can be visited by grief, hilarity, and depth. While my friend is confronting the realities of drinking too much, another is celebrating a clean bill of health, while yet another is awaiting a pathology report. Another friend is again counting days, while another is mourning the death of a long-time pet. I can picture a friend in Ireland doing yoga in the living room while I'm fast asleep, or another in Pakistan making a cup of tea while I'm living the details of my daily life. Simultaneous and parallel lives, intertwining or on different tracks all together.  

In the simultaneous lives department, I had a procedure this week - a basal cell carcinoma removed from my forehead. Not fun, but the milder form of skin cancer, and I've had several of the same surgeries, so wasn't worried. While sitting in the designated area awaiting the pathology report, I was struck by the temporary community gathered in that room - 9 or 10 oldsters, bandages on noses or chins (or foreheads), initially silent, but venturing into conversation as the morning wore on, snacks coming out, a few naps. And then, we all went our separate ways, unlike the community of shared histories we find in 12 Step programs. Classrooms, workplaces, various waiting rooms for car maintenance or medical stuff contain the framework of being "in this together," but not the deeper bond of shared pain, history and joy that we have in AA/Alanon. When entering a waiting room, for instance, I do a scan, noticing who's talking, who's not, and generally, will dive into the book I've brought along. When walking into a meeting just about anywhere, I have an almost immediate sense of belonging and of being welcomed, even if only with a smile or an invitation to take the empty seat. 

My step-pop's brother, aged 95, died on the 6th, though I just found out - he lived out of state, and the nephew designated to let me know, didn't. This faux-uncle was a really good guy, sweet, funny, and kind. He was a talker, boy howdy, so I only phoned when I had thirty or more minutes to spare, but what's half an hour? I'm reminded of something my instructor said years ago when I first started working in treatment and had deadlines to get X number of intakes done in a day. She gently reminded me, "You may have six more assignments to get through, but this is likely the only thing the person sitting in front of you has to do, and may very well be the first time they've done this." In other words, slow your roll, Jeanine. Being task-oriented is great, but that can be tempered with people-orientation. My Elections supervisor always reminds us, "You are made of time," when we go out to assist a voter. 

You are made of time. An odd saying particular to this boss, but something I can absorb. I often have an agenda, a schedule, and... save plane boarding, a ticketed performance, or an appointment, most of what I do on any given day can be adjusted. I have preferences - walking early, after my first cup of tea for example - but I'm also perfectly capable of walking after breakfast or lunch. Good for me to remember when I get into "This is how it should be" mode (beware the lurking "should").

And so, here in the US, a national election looms as I try to be mindful of balance, that desire to stay informed without becoming obsessed with the rollercoaster of polling data. Like the early AA's who went off to war and kept their sobriety, my challenge is to keep spiritual principles at the forefront, knowing I have the tools to deal with whatever comes down the pike. A quote I jotted down from a meeting share - Don't ask for guidance but ask to be open to guidance. I have particular outcomes I'd like to see, would like skywriting telling me what to do if A, B or C occurs, and...  I can remember this one-day-at-a-time business. Right here, right now, all is well. As a counselor reminded us, way back in early 1986, I've had enough to eat today and I know where I'll be sleeping tonight, and in that, I am fortunate indeed. So, turn off the TV, go for a walk, look up at the sky, and remember what matters, which today is peace of mind.

Is there anything in your life that might benefit from asking for help, personally or professionally? What emotions and situations are visiting this week, not always one at a time? How do you balance tasks with relationships, relaxation or spiritual connections? How do you detach from world events while staying appropriately engaged in this human life?

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The NOW WHAT workbook is 78 pages of topics and processing questions, great for solo exploration or in a small group. Go to the WEB VERSION of this blog page for the link on ordering (PDF for those outside the U.S., or hard copy mailed to you). Contact me at SoberLongTime@soberlongtime.com or shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. And a reminder that the workbook, is available at the Portland Area Intergroup at 825 NE 20th. for local folks.

Glimmers

 This past week, someone reminded me of the concept of "glimmers" - those sweet moments that often go unnoticed. I'm certainly aware of triggers, or annoyances, but how often do the small beauties pass by? Leaves changing colors, a child's shy smile, a kitten's cuddle, a tasty bowl of oatmeal, a text from a friend - all can be occasions to exhale into the joys of life. Note to self - pay attention.

We just spent a few days with my spouse's family - always good, this time even more meaningful with his step-dad's 95th birthday celebration. I piggybacked my own 70th birthday the day before, with a family meal and my free birthday Starbucks (!), and a very sweet and meaningful meeting and coffee after (complete with a Happy Birthday to You song and candles) with our home-away-from-home group friends. I do truly love and appreciate my husband's people, and feel the same about the AA family that we've been pals with from in-person visits over the past 10+ years, and now weekly via a zoom group we all attend. Family of chance and family of choice - I'm fortunate in both departments. And funny enough, at another in-person meeting last week, I (of course) mentioned my 70th birthday. Afterwards, a beautiful woman came up and told me that she is 78, laughing that in recovery we don't necessarily look our age, or act our age - whatever that means. It certainly isn't what I'd expected.

A good friend reads Tarot cards as her alter-ego, Tarot Card Lady, and I was gifted a reading for my birthday. The Tarot is spiritual in nature, not fortune-telling, and my cards were overall positive for this stage of life, whether we're talking this year of turning 70, or the coming decade (the cards don't operate on clock time like we mere mortals). I sometimes use the Runes, too, as a means to help me remember what it is I need to know, i.e. that I am ok and can drop the now small rock of self-criticism, that I can handle whatever comes my way, that love really is the answer.

I recently came up close and personal with the disease in action. Of course I interact with newcomers at meetings, but this was someone I know personally, who's in that contemplation stage of "Maybe I do have a problem," where it feels like 1,000 miles across the chasm of denial and bargaining ("I at least want to cut down"). Oh man. Here in the bubble of long-term sobriety, I can almost forget the shame and disbelief, the fear that I'd never have fun again, and what will people think??  I can be supportive while doing my best to stay one step behind the person rather than trying to drag them forward to where they haven't yet been, remembering how weird the notion of not drinking or using seemed at first. Even "one day at a time" sounded daunting, like a trick of some sort. I'll never forget the old-timer at one of my early meetings, surveying the room, saying, "Don't let this one day at a time crap fool you - we're talking about the rest of your god damned lives." Well then.

And so, what will I do with the rest of my g.d. life, today? My seasonal elections work is about to ignite, there are house and yard chores to do before the weather turns, and a desk overflowing with bits of paper and things to be filed. And in the meantime, I walk in the mornings, secretary a couple of online groups, connect with friends. This week I'll mail off some Alanon literature to the spouse of the person newly acknowledging their alcoholism, hoping, hoping, hoping that something in the world of recovery clicks for both of them.

What "glimmers" do you notice?  How does the family of choice/family of chance play out in your life today? Do the people you care about know that you do? How do you carry the message of recovery, and is that different with a stranger or a loved one?

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The NOW WHAT workbook is 78 pages of topics and processing questions, great for solo exploration or in a small group. Go to the WEB VERSION of this blog page for the link on ordering (PDF for those outside the U.S., or hard copy mailed to you). Contact me at SoberLongTime@soberlongtime.com or shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. And a reminder that the workbook, is available at the Portland Area Intergroup at 825 NE 20th. for local folks.

"I don't know"

 One of my daily readers says, "It is a sign of strength, not of weakness, to admit that you don't know all the answers," going on to describe how pride, and the desire to be admired got in the way of humility. I agree - in fact a friend has said that "I don't know" is the most spiritual thing they can say. I don't think that pride was my driver as much as shame, simply not knowing it was OK to not know. My dad was the stoic type who wouldn't stop the car to ask directions, and held himself to a high standard (this is my guess - we never talked about it). So, probably like many in my generation, I didn't have many examples of adults asking for help, though my math teacher, the one who beaned me over the head with a textbook, once said, "The only stupid question is the one you don't ask." 

I was embarrassed to not know stuff before I got sober - I thought I was supposed to know, even when something I'd have no way of knowing. That surrender of admitting to my innermost self that I'm alcoholic was the first stage of being able to acknowledge that there is so much I don't know, so much I'm not in control of. A relief, though scary at first. And, always good to remember when I find myself in "figure it out" mode, as if thinking harder about something will change or fix it.

As I was walking on one of the first rainy days here in Portland, reveling in the change of seasons, the thought popped up of "So how do you want to spend this autumn?" not wanting to wake up on December 21 at the Equinox saying, "Wow - that went fast!" That will probably happen, but in the meantime, how do I want to inhabit this season? What do I want to do? How do I want to be of service? How do I want to be?

I feel a longing for spiritual connection, for time with myself, not simply grabbing a 30-minute nap between tasks or appointments or dates with friends - all important, and part of what brings richness to my life, and... it's harder to hear the still, small voice when I'm constantly on the move. Again and always, I don't want to pathologize my basic nature, and as the clock ticks, I'm more and more aware that I have a limited amount of time remaining. As an African proverb states, "When death finds you, may it find you alive." Or as Mary Oliver so beautifully puts it in her poem, When Death Comes, "When it's over, I want to say all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.., I don't want to end up simply having visited this world." I don't read this as a directive to DO MORE, but as a reminder to be present, to notice my life rather than glide on through. 

A friend was just diagnosed with the "big C", or should I say, "another friend" was just diagnosed. I'm telling you, this business of diagnoses, procedures, etc etc seems almost like the rites of passage I wrote about last week. The good news is that cancer isn't automatically the death sentence that it might've once been, with earlier detection and advances in treatment. And still, it isn't a word anyone wants associated with themselves or a loved one, or even a mere acquaintance. Again and again, we get, I get the opportunity to practice the principles in all my affairs. How do I show up, for myself and for others? How do I trust that all will be well, even when it seems otherwise at first glance. 

It's now been one year since my sister-in-law went into a memory care foster home. That flew by, though maybe not for my brother, who sees her 3-4 times a week. Sometimes she asks if he's married, and he'll say, "Yes, honey - to you." He tells me that some families are upset because their person doesn't recognize them, but those folks only visit once a month or less, so not surprising. I imagine there will be a time when his wife doesn't recognize him at all too, but in the meantime, he'll keep showing up for a visit or to take her out for a drive. I admire his loyalty.

I have a small handful of friends who are concerned about their cognition - a scary place to be. By my thinking, when you're gone, you're gone, but can only imagine the terror when you know you're losing your abilities. Aging is not for wimps and there seems no rhyme or reason for dementia. At first, my sister-in-law wondered if she'd done something "wrong." No. She was a doctor's office manager in her professional life, well read and a jazz aficionado. Intelligence seems to have nothing to do with it. The luck of the draw, as my brother told her.

And I just learned of another friend's relapse, yet again. Is continuous sobriety the luck of the draw as well? Do some people simply not hurt enough to stay? That can't be it, but I do think that the more times one slips, the harder it can be to get back and that using and drinking over time damages the brain. This damned disease - cunning, baffling and powerful. I certainly can't fix anyone else, but I can be there for support, and can utilize their example of the precious nature of sobriety and the daily reprieve.

How do you envision this autumn season (spring in the southern hemisphere) unfolding, and how will you be present for each day? How do you practice the principles, even when the world turns topsy turvy or you get news you'd rather not? As a person in long-term recovery, is sobriety still your priority (though granted, maybe in different ways than when new)? What is your relationship to saying "I don't know?"

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The NOW WHAT workbook is 78 pages of topics and processing questions, great for solo exploration or in a small group. Go to the WEB VERSION of this blog page for the link on ordering (PDF for those outside the U.S., or hard copy mailed to you). Contact me at SoberLongTime@soberlongtime.com or shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. And a reminder that the workbook, is available at the Portland Area Intergroup at 825 NE 20th. for local folks.

Rites of Passage

 Our daughter and her boyfriend moved out of state this past week - excited for them and this career move, and sad that we'll no longer be able to have spur-of-the-moment meals and conversations. We helped with the packing - me loading kitchen ware into boxes and Dad doing the heavy lifting to fill the rental truck. I never moved out of state, but as I wrapped glasses, nestling them safely in a box, I thought of my mother helping me pack for a move across town, sharing memories and laughter as the crates filled, hopeful that whoever actually moved the boxes paid attention to "FRAGILE" written on all four sides.

Kids moving out, moving away, leaving town, and creating their own life is a rite of passage, in this culture anyway.  Knowing that doesn't take away the longing to stop time, the worry about the road trip with trailer, the hopes that all will go their way. Many in my cohort have grandkids the age of my step-daughter, so my rite of passage may be a bit late, but we get what we get when we get it.

Growing up, my rites of passage weren't articulated as such, but related to what I may have thought as the privilege of maturity - smoking cigarettes, drinking, using drugs, making out with my boyfriend, not cognizant of the fact that the acts themselves meant nothing, no matter how grown I thought I was. I do remember, at my first wedding shower, and at baby showers for friends, being aware of the ritual nature of women coming together to provide passage from one stage of life to the next. It wasn't spoken, but the teasing, the gifts, the "this is what it was like for me" served as lessons, or at the very least, acknowledgment of life changing.

I often think of the ritualistic nature of our 12-Step meetings - the readings and format that is essentially the same wherever I go. I recall a holiday season, years ago, at our local Alano Club, back when every room was filled at noon and 5:30. There was no room in any of the meetings, but I sat in the outer hall, comforted by the cadence of sharing even though I couldn't quite hear what was said. Ritual and repetition are important for this alcoholic, and I've since incorporated routines into my sober life around holidays and change of seasons - the beauty of "take what you like and leave the rest," picking up ideas along the way.

I'm part of several traditions that have taken hold in the last few years - our monthly "old codger" lunch date with friends from grade school, a bi-monthly cousins brunch with those we were on the verge of losing touch with after our mothers passed, a white elephant holiday gathering and a big Creole Christmas feast at my besties, a lifesaver after mom died and I felt so unmoored at the holidays. Another friend and I pick peaches every summer; we visit my husband's family in the spring and fall, all things I look forward to, along with my yearly candlelight women's meeting at the winter solstice. 

Is there a difference between a tradition and a habit, those things we do because we've always done it that way (a kiss of death in the workplace)? Ideally, a tradition has room to evolve and change with circumstance, sometimes needing something new to fill a gap when the old way is no longer feasible. I'm thinking of when someone dies, or like in the pandemic lock-down, when so much was curtailed. For me, it comes back to the have-to vs want-to. If I grit my teeth with the thought of spending one more holiday with Aunt Sally (I don't have an Aunt Sally!), it's a have-to worth questioning. Sometimes I do things out of service to another - if Aunt Sally looks forward to the event all year and has few visitors, well of course I'll carry on. Checking my gut and my motives (is it me, me, me or what I can pack into the stream of life?) as well as how I might be of service, along with the ever present, "How important it is?" Will I truly regret the hour or two spent in a particular meeting or a meal, or can I get over myself and be in the moment?

Contrary to some of my peers, I'm actually a little excited about turning 70. I've read a couple of pieces recently by those in their 70's or 80's who say this is the best time of life. Sure, my physical abilities aren't what they used to be (ha ha or never were for me) but being comfortable in my own skin seems to expand exponentially as the calendar turns (and yes, I'm well aware that being in good health, physically, emotionally and financially makes all the difference). May I continue to dwell on positive possibilities, and seek out those who are examples of meeting life as it comes, sometimes gracefully and sometimes trudging uphill. 

To that end, I'm walking a half-marathon on Sunday - 13.1 miles - with a friend, on what promises to be a lovely day. As a past marathoner, I think of my mom, who said on more than one occasion, "How long is that marathon you're doing, honey?" to which I'd reply, "Mother, by definition, a marathon is 26.2 miles." She once asked when I was going to "stop all that" running here and there. My question back was "Why?" Sort of like the "Do you still go to meetings?" question - why do you ask? I will keep doing what I do until I either don't want to, or can't, and then I'll do something else.

What might you consider rites of passage, current or past? Did you recognize them as such at the time? As we near the holiday season (sometimes called the emotional Bermuda Triangle by those of us in recovery), what traditions do you look forward to, and what might you want to release? How will you strive for balance in what can be a busy time of year?

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The NOW WHAT workbook is 78 pages of topics and processing questions, great for solo exploration or in a small group. Go to the WEB VERSION of this blog page for the link on ordering (PDF for those outside the U.S., or hard copy mailed to you). Contact me at SoberLongTime@soberlongtime.com or shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. And a reminder that the workbook, is available at the Portland Area Intergroup at 825 NE 20th. for local folks.