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.
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