Friday, July 5, 2013
I thought of those settlers that had lived in the group of log cabins up the road from our place more than one hundred years ago. I thought of how those mountains had stopped them in their tracks and kept them from getting to where they wanted to go. The promised land of California or Oregon or Washington, where the soil wasn't stingy and full of boulders, where the winters didn't last most of the year, where people could hang onto the promise of spring. I thought of how even in the dark, you can feel those mountains looming over you, threatening at any moment to crush you, both physically and spiritually.
And I thought, I can't believe I'm singing along aloud to the radio with other people listening and I haven't been drinking. And I can't believe that I my brother and sister-in-law brought my nephew back to see me after their last visit. The visit that spurred this blog and my recovery, you can read about that catastrophe here in my very first blog Forgive Unto Thyself .
To give you a short synopsis, that visit started with me giddily drunk and playing ballerina across the stream, breaking my toe while trying to rescue an escaped flip-flop. Somewhere in the middle of the visit my sister-in-law threatened to hide my bottle from me, I just smiled woozily at her and then promptly puked up the dinner she had just fixed as she sat beside me on the couch (nice, huh?). The last three days of the visit I was in withdrawal and couldn't get myself out of my bed in the loft of our cabin while they tip-toed down below. Did I mention that my six year old grandson was also visiting?
Suffice it to say, that I wouldn't have blamed them if they never came back. But they did come back. Because, since that last visit I have climbed me some mountains and I've moved or torn down the ones that were standing in my way.
Mountains don't scare me anymore. I am no longer trapped in the dark, waiting for that crushing blow to come.
I know how to climb.