Mike

A couple of years ago, I was sitting in a bar down in Mexico, imagine that, it was our usual Friday afternoon crowd and we were starting to get our loud on.  I was already starting to try and "manage" my drinking, hell, I'd been trying to manage it since I started.  Sitting smack dab in the middle of the empty Modelo cans and full ashtrays sat this man, Mike, quietly sipping his Diet Pepsi and laughing with good nature about the ribbing he was getting for providing some extra, um...chum on a recent fishing trip. I knew of this man, I'd never met him, but you know how we are when we are at that point in our drinking, so sick of ourselves, so desperate for any message of hope, constantly looking for someone to throw us a  lifeline.  Someone must have whispered in my ear once, "You know he's an alcoholic. Bad.  Real big in AA." I know now that Mike would never have wanted someone whispering those things in my ear, he would have wanted them to holler those words loud enough for the whole bar to hear.  He repeated those same words to me just a few minutes later, when I'd worked up enough courage and had enough bourbon in me to wiggle my way into a seat across from him.  He told me about his drinking, how bad it was, he told me about going to the hospital with severe pancreatitis and telling the doctor there, "You know I drink" and she said, "I know" and he said, "I drink a lot." and she said, "I know." He told me about going to rehab and he told me about his life in AA.

He told me he'd been sober 18 years.  He told me about how damn good his life is.  The joy and the disbelief in his good fortune radiated in his quiet smile and in every word he spoke.

He told me about Hope.

Mike passed away about a week ago and I wrote his wife, Lynette.  I'd already told her about mine and Mike's conversation in that bar and what it had meant to me, on my one year sober anniversary, Mike was in the hospital and I asked her to tell him, "Thank you."  The day before yesterday, I wrote her and told her how I had always looked at her and Mike's marriage as one of those star-struck lucky ones.  That she was blessed.  This is the lovely and hope-filled message she wrote me back.


You are such a sweetheart for sending me this note. You have no idea how much it means to me.
Mike and I used to talk about that other kind of marriage, the same-space forced-proximity too-financially-tangled-up-to-escape kind. We were so, so lucky. No, I would never have wanted to miss out on 20 years of my sweetheart to escape the tough times in those two decades, or heartbreak in the end. I am glad that you have found that kind of love too. We are blessed, Kary.
This is something that I wrote for Mike's funeral. It was such a good service, lots of AA people there, and no preaching. The man who led the thing was one of Mike's oldest friends in AA and he shared personal stories about Mike's impact on others that were just lovely.
If you have to have a funeral, it was a great one.

"Mike and I went to a poker game together after a Friday night AA meeting, the night before our first real date. Close to midnight, he dealt the last hand of five card draw. I picked up my cards to find my first ever royal flush ~ in hearts. The odds of that are about one in a million. When I raked in the biggest pot of the night, Mike looked at me across the table with that beautiful smile, and said "alright, babe!" I took a big chunk of his money that night, and he laughed about it. Something about his happiness in my good fortune made me think at that moment that he was the one.

And he was. Mike and I were perfect together from the start. We had a one-in-a-million, royal flush kind of life together. He made me laugh every single day and his warmth and love were as constant as the sun and the waves of that green ocean he loved, even in the hardest times.One of the last things Mike said to a friend, just after he'd awakened in ICU, a week before he died, was this: "I am blessed." He was blessed and he knew it. And I was blessed to have 20 years with him. Though people tell me life goes on,

It's impossible to imagine a life without my sweetheart, without that smart, funny, happy, man to share the days with. I will miss him the rest of my life."One day at a time, Kary. I know there's a next life coming up and I can't imagine what it will hold. It will be different, I know that. And I wish he were here, but I know that he is now healthy and free of illness and ... well, I'd say peaceful and happy, but no matter how sick he became, he was always peaceful and happy. :-)

In the ICU, he saw something incredible over my left shoulder, something that lit up his face and stunned him. What was it? I don't know, but next he said "The door closed," and three days later he was out on the regular floor at the hospital when he said, very matter-of-factly, I'm going to die. He knew. He also saw what was coming for a moment, and it thrilled him. He spent the next day with this amazing smile on his face saying over and over again "wow!" He was just recovering his verbal ability at that point. I wish he could have told me more about what he saw, but things work out the way they're supposed to. He's in a good place and I am grateful for that

.and now I've just yakked your ear off!! Thank you again for writing. What a gift you gave me this morning. hugs, lynette

Mike, buddy, you're still sending me messages of Hope.  Thank you.  Kary

Yes, It Is!!

Day 357 of Sobriety

I was sitting out on the front porch of my shitty little apartment shooting the shit with my neighbor, Kyvan, this evening.  Kyvan is a driller in the oil field, and if you know much about oil field workers, you know that  about the closest most of them get to refinement is what happens to that stuff that they're drilling that big hole and losing a few fingers for..  I can say that with pride because my daddy spent 30+ years in the oil field and he always liked to make note of all the years he spent in the field and the fact that he retained all of his digits.

Kyvan is also a recovered alcoholic and drug addict with 12 years of sobriety under his belt, I know this because my friend/landlady told me that Kyvan's first day of sobriety was the day he moved in next door, which was 12 years ago.  I also know this because another friend told me that Kyvan helped her daughter get off the crack and booze.

Kyvan does not know I am an alcoholic.  Or he didn't, but when we were discussing our mutual acquaintance, the daughter of my friend, I thought it appropriate that I let him in on my little secret.

"You know," I said, "I'm an alcoholic, too."

 "It'll be a year within the next week," I added with what I thought was just the right amount of humility.

"Well," Kyvan replied thoughtfully, running his tongue under his bottom lip as if he was getting ready to let go with a big wad of chew (which he also gave up 12 years ago), "Ya gotta start somewhere."

I blinked at him dumbfounded for a minute, and then I burst out laughing.

Who was I to think that my peasly, measly, almost year would impress him?  I'm sure he's seen the likes of me come and go and come and go again.

And then I thought of how I view the people with all those years of saying, "No" under their belts and how it must be so blase for them now and how the struggle has got to be practically  non-existent for them.  And really, after all those years do they really deserve much attention?  Certainly not as much as I, who still thinks about drinking on a daily basis, and even today had an occasion to think, "I wish I could have a drink before I do this."

And then I thought of how I view the people who are just starting out, the ones that are getting their Day 1's, and Day 30's, and Day 100's under their belt and the pull of the booze is still the stronger opponent in their game of tug-of-war and I'm still not putting my bets on them because that ground under their feet is still to damn slippery.

And then I made myself remember how hard-won and amazing every one of my 357 days have been and how proud and thankful I was/am when I woke/wake up in the morning after making the choice not to drink the day before. 

And then I made myself look ahead and try to picture myself 10 or 20 years from now and I wonder if I will have let my sobriety become monotonous or if I will forget how hard I struggled and how much I valued my early sobriety. How will I keep myself from being tempted to relinquish this miracle?  Will all that time spent sober some how fool me, once again, into believing I am in control.

 I looked into Kyvan's 12 years sober eyes and I could see the gratitude and pride that I knew was mirrored in my own 357 days sober eyes.

That's when I realized that every day we stay sober is a Big Fucking Deal!

Thelma and Louise

Thelma: Hey Louise, better slow down, I'll just die if we get caught over a speeding ticket. Are you sure we should be driving like this, I mean in broad daylight and everything?
Louise Sawyer: No we shouldn't, but I want to put some distance between us and the SCENE OF OUR LAST GOD DAMNED CRIME!
[Thelma laughs and screams]
Thelma: Oh man! You wouldn'ta believed it, it was like I was doing it all my life, nobody woulda believed it.
Louise Sawyer: Think you found your calling?
Thelma: May-be... may-be.
[gets up in her seat]
Thelma: The call of the wild!

Days of Sobriety: 338

I have been trying to talk myself out of writing this blog all evening and now it's time to go to bed and I could be curled up reading Fifty Shades Of Gray (to my commenter, grateful:  Of course, I'm reading that book, and we'll compare book reports later), but this damn thing just won't be put to rest.  Mainly because I'm worried about my best friend, Sherry, who just got evicted from her apartment.

I was out for a walk this evening and I passed a neat little older home, two story with a wrap around porch and a stained glass transom light over the front door, and I thought to myself, "If I won the lottery, I would buy that house for Sherry."  And then, of course, I started making stipulations.  The list kept growing.  She couldn't move her dogs in, especially the one that poops on the floor every time it barks which is every 37 seconds.  She couldn't move her kids in, especially the one that steals her money so she has to put it in her robe pocket and sleep in her robe every night.  She couldn't resale the house for cash.  She couldn't drink.

Well, there goes that deal out the window, we all know that last one's a deal breaker.

I think I've told you about my best friend.  We're so alike in so many ways.  We were both born in this same little dusty cow town.  We grew up in middle class neighborhoods with parents that stayed married and older brothers and sisters.  In high school we both existed on the fringe of the popular crowd, we weren't friends then but we knew of each other.  Later on we both worked at the hospital but in different departments, then Sherry transferred to the OR and we found out we had one more thing in common, we both loved to drink, and our friendship was forged.

We lived in the same neighborhood, we both had three boys and unhappy marriages.  By day we were dedicated scrub nurses, by night we were two boozy bosom buddies trying to escape our humdrum lives.  Thick as thieves we were, lying and cheating and covering each others tracks no matter where they led.

But there were always differences.  I won't go into them but I think if Sherry and I were Thelma and Louise, I would be Louise and Sherry would be Thelma.  It was as if, like Thelma and Louise, we were both on the same road trip but there were different views out our windows.  My side had pastoral meadows, gently rolling hills, babbling brooks and all kinds of bucolic shit while hers was all craggy cliffs, sharp drop offs and beware of falling rocks signs.

I don't know about you, but when that movie ended, I always liked to imagine that Louise jumped out of that car before it went flying over that cliff.  At the last minute, she saw there was no way in hell they were going to make it, she looked over at Thelma and said, "Sorry babe, you're on your own.'' and then threw herself from the car, did a couple of somersaults and then stood up, dusted herself off and walked back to the Harvey Keitel character and rode off into the sunset in an RV.

As for Thelma, I always thought even if she jumped from the car and saved herself that time, she was going to end up back at the edge of that cliff over and over again, and someday she was going to wait too long to save herself.

And I know, that no matter how good the view was on my side of the road, that if I hadn't quit drinking 338 days ago someday I would have ended up at the bottom of that cliff with Thelma.

I'm glad I jumped out of that damn car.

As for my friend, Sherry?  I need your help.  I don't know how to keep her from plunging off that cliff.

Someone To Watch Over Me

I feel that there is an angel inside me whom I am constantly shocking. ~Jean Cocteau

Day 229 of Sobriety

Barbara saw her first and pointed her out to me, at first I didn't recognize her and then I noticed her halo and wings and knew that I knew her.

Barbara wanted her for her own but she wavered for just a minute too long and I stole her out from under her nose.  Don't you hate friends that do that?  Lo siento, Babs, but she belongs to me.

My poor Guardian Angel, I've certainly given her a run for her money.  She must be plumb tuckered out from swooping down to keep me from falling off leaky old boats or wobbly old docks, or from sitting on a bar stool cringing while I regaled the crowd with another dirty joke or from holding my hand during the long nights of withdrawal.

So now she hangs at the side of my bed looking down at me and looking....bored.  Too bad!

Hey! What does that say about my sex life? Ja Ja Ja!

Fixin' To

"It's never too late to be what you might have been."

Overcoming Addiction Quote by George Eliot (November 1819 - December 1880)

Day 201

Another long absence to explain/excuse away, it’s such a relief to be able to be honest and not have to cover up my drinking anymore.  Last night we were supposed to go to yet another fundraiser and I just didn’t feel like it and called my friend who was throwing it to tell her that I wasn’t going to make it, a year ago she would have assumed that I was too drunk or hungover.  Not anymore.

I’ve been busy. Busy meddling in other people’s business and busy offering unsolicited advice.  Oh, and I didn’t have any internet service for three days which nettled me to no end.  And the internet provider didn’t even call to ask for my advice, which frustrated me even further.

You see, I’m a fixer.  I love to be given a problem and asked for a solution.  Okay, maybe I’m not asked for solutions all that often but I’m always ready with one if you do ask, or even if you don’t.  Except when it comes to my own problems.  Ah-ha!  I can remember sitting on my sofa in the dark, unkempt and miserable in the midst of shaky withdrawals and telling the cap’n how much I hated “this,” how I couldn’t do it anymore, how much I hated me.  He would reply, “Fix it.”

Oh God!  How simple that solution seems now but how insurmountable it seemed then.  If you’re just starting this journey, you’re probably saying, “Tell me how, tell me how.”  If you’re where I am, you’re probably saying, “Why did it take me so long.”  And if you’ve been sober for a while, your nodding and saying, “I told you so.”

The solution is simply quit drinking.  So I quit drinking and everything is hunky-dory, right? Wrong.  Drinking is like a big road block sign warning you that there is danger ahead and that you’re better off taking the detour then hazarding the potholes and dangers that lie ahead.  For years,  I kept taking the detours and they kept taking me further and further from my destination, in the end I didn’t even remember where I wanted to go, much less how to get there.

So now I’ve climbed over the drinking road block and I’m hitting different road blocks and I have decisions to make.  I can take another detour, or change directions, or try to hitch a ride with someone and go wherever they’re going, or I can just sit there and be stuck.  OR I CAN CLIMB OVER THE DAMN THING AND START REPAIRING THE DAMN ROAD.

So last week I was sitting at one of these roadblocks, feeling trapped, and considering my options. Okay, enough already with the damn road construction, I’m going to speak plainly.  I was frustrated with a certain situation (How’s that for plain speaking?) and I was feeling trapped.  I was so sick and tired of someone else deciding what my options are.  So I decided I need to go back to work.  I mean really, here I am bellyaching and worrying about not being able to afford to live in CO and here but I won’t get off my lazy ass to support the cause?  But the problem is my ass ain’t just lazy, it’s scared.  Probably more scared than lazy.  But my ass is tired of being scared and lazy.

So I contacted some travel nursing agencies and I was actually getting past being scared to being excited while I was filling out the application packets.  One of the jobs I was really interested in was in a state that I don’t have a license in. “Just a tiny speed bump,” I thought. “All I have to do is apply for a license in that state.” WRONG!  Come to find out, in order to receive licensure in that particular state I have to prove that I have worked 520 hours in the past two years in the state I am licensed in.  I haven’t.  Major roadblock.  But not insurmountable, all I have to do is clock some hours in my home state.

I went to the website of the hospital in which I worked for 20 odd years and yes, there was an opening in the OR.  Great, right?  I wasn’t so sure.  The OR director is the same one who was my boss for a few years and we always had a good relationship….I think.  The last time I inquired about working there a few years ago, she told me that they didn’t need me, that their surgery schedule wasn’t busy enough.  That was true, but as an alcoholic, I always get to wonder if my drinking had anything to do with it.  Let me make it clear, I never went to work impaired, not unless you count hangovers, in that case I was impaired for 20 years, but I’m sure the apt description, “She’s a damn good nurse, but you know she’s a drinker” that I had heard applied to several of my esteemed colleagues was applied to me as well through the years.

I could have detoured around the discomfort of applying for a job back at this facility and applied at another facility in the state, but I really wanted to refresh my skills in a place that I was familiar with, plus, I needed a good reference from this supervisor to apply for other jobs.  So,…gulp…I emailed her about my situation and prepared to wait for the verdict.

I didn’t have to wait long. She emailed me the next morning, “I’ve been thinking about you,” she wrote, “I could really use you while some of the new staff is training”.

Alleluia! One more roadblock kicked to the ditch along with one more fear that my drinking had left more potholes to fill.

So I’m fixin’ to get my lazy, scared, old ass back to work.  There are a lot more roadblocks to get rid of before I can go back to work, and going back to work is just one more leg of the journey, but God it feels good to be back on the road. 

Damn good!  

So today I’m just out there doing by best to keep jumpin’ those roadblocks, fillin’ in the potholes and fixin’ the road that lies ahead.  I’m fixin’ to get to where I’m goin’.

P.S. In reference to the picture above, it doesn't seem to matter how far I go, I always end up back in KS.  Can someone tell me how to delete the "No Place Like Home" app in my ruby red slippers?

Beach Boogie

Day 185 of Sobriety

I had other plans for my blog today, actually I was torn between writing about newfound honesty or my plans to go back to work but I guess my Co-Writer decided nobody wanted to read about that sh%$ because when I decided to take a walk to more fully formulate my profound thoughts on the matters, he hit me right between the eyes with a “sign.”

I hadn’t gone far, actually I had just reached the end of my calle, when right in front of me was an older man making his way to the beach.  He was using a walker with wheels and you could see his legs were stiff and strictured and his progress was slow in the soft sand. Now I could stop right there and make this a whole blog about perseverance and not giving up and living your life in spite of your infirmities and burdens.

But that’s not the point.  I haven’t given you the full picture yet.  

Hanging off the front of the walker was a white plastic chair, one of the flimsy ones you see everywhere, the ones down here usually have the Modelo or Sol beer logo on the back of them.  Now I could stop here and write a blog about stopping in our struggles to take a moment to sit in the sun and enjoy its warmth on our face and know that all of the pain and hardship is worth it.

But you still haven’t got the whole picture.

Because hanging on the side of the walker was a boogie board and don’t you just know that as he pushed that stubborn sumbitch of a walker in that unrelenting sand his eyes were focused on that cool water that lay in front of him and all he could think of was that soon he would be able to move effortlessly in its merciful buoyancy and when he had swum as far and fast as he could go the waves would send him racing back to shore.  

I’m not sure of the lesson in that, I’m lazy today and I’ll let you come up with your own instead of supplying you with yet another one of my sophomoric analogies.

Oh, you still don’t have the full picture.

He was wearing a Speedo.

I’m not sure what the lesson is there either, but the complete picture makes me smile.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to get my boogie on and strut my stuff, infirmities be damned!

The Girl With Kaleidoscope Eyes

At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities.

Jean Houston

Day 183

I passed the six month mark three days ago, and several very profound, I’m sure, blogs that I meant to sit down and write have escaped my brain never to return.  

My world is a kaleidoscope these days, every slight spin more and more fascinating and enthralling. This morning is made up of bright fragments of birdsong, orange and fuchsia hibiscus blossoms, the sway of palm fronds, the morning surf and warm sand.  There are fragments of expectancy, and worry, and laughter and tears in there also and as the day whirls around me they will click into their various spaces and all of it will come together to form a perfectly beautiful, ever shifting mosaic.

From Wikipedia: the word "kaleidoscope" is derived from the Ancient Greek καλός (kalos), "beautiful, beauty",[2] εἶδος (eidos), "that which is seen: form, shape"[3] and σκοπέω (skopeō), "to look to, to examine",[4] hence "observer of beautiful forms." [5]

I am an observer of beautiful forms, my life is beautiful, beauty.  This is an apt description of who I am these days.  A couple of people have commented to me in pm’s and in person that I have made sobriety seem easy, effortless, maybe too much so, but they forget I didn’t blog about or share my first 3-4 years of this struggle, or maybe they haven’t read my first year of this blog when I was still trying to moderate. But the plain truth is, my life did become so much easier, so much more effortless, when I simply quit drinking. Believe me, there are still days that the sun doesn’t shine through the end of my kaleidoscope and all of the sharp fragments look dark and gray and no amount of spinning changes the view.  But those days are the minority now, they had their time in the majority when I was drinking and I couldn’t find the sun through my constant cloud of booze.  Now I know the dark days will pass and the light will shine through again and all my brilliant little pieces will click and find their vibrant beautiful niches.

I must ever remind myself that what I hold in my hands is a fragile contraption of reflections and tiny fragile bits of me and if I am careless and drop it all those brilliant little pieces will spill onto the warm sand to be washed away by the morning surf.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to hold on tight and not let my ever spinning world make me dizzy.

P.S.  Years ago one of my favorite students gave me a kaleidoscope, he said it symbolized himself, simplicity and plainness on the outside but ever-shifting beauty on the inside.  It got lost in one of my moves and I’ve been looking for it for years. I probably gave it away when I was drunk.  I need to go buy me another kaleidoscope.

Cock-A-Doodle-Do!!!

Day 145

Up at the ungodly hour of 5 am this morning, I wish the neighbor could convince his damn rooster to sleep in on Sundays.  Hey wait a minute, my neighbor doesn’t have a rooster.  That must have been me crowing.

The cap’n and I and our friends, Yack (That’s how our friend Gaby pronounces Jack, and it fits) and Barbara, decided to go down the Bull Pen yesterday evening for “Beer Friday On Saturday” (I’ll explain that in another post sometime).  We all promised we would only have one since we vowed to get home and cook dinner and stay at home for a change.  When we got there, a couple that rents a casa down the calle from us, Peggy and Joe, were sitting at a table up front.  We said, “Hi” and the cap’n stopped to chat with them while Yack and Babs and I took a table next to them.  I’ve never really warmed up to this couple, one reason is they don’t seem to associate with many of the expats from our village, instead they hang out with a group of fellow Canadians in Chixculub.  But the big reason is because last year, a couple weeks after New Year’s, we ran into them at the Bodega in Progreso (that is the main grocery store), we’d just walked into the store and Joe was standing at the service counter.

“I heard about your New Years Eve,” he boomed to me in decibels loud enough to be heard across El Gulfo to Galveston.

“Oh really,” I asked, trying to find an escape route through the crowd maneuvering their shopping carts through the entrance.

“I heard you were plastered!!” boomed the human foghorn again.

Suffice it to say, I’ve been giving them a wide berth ever since.

We stayed true to our word yesterday and only had one drink each, as I was getting in the car to leave I realized I was carrying the glass from the bar.  When I went back in to return it, Patrick, the owner, was at Peggy and Joe’s table.  I went over and sat the still half-full glass down on their table.

“Has that got rum in it?” Joe boomed. “If it does, I’ll drink it.”

“Nope, just Coke-lite,” I replied nonchalantly.

“No rum?” the crestfallen Joe asked in bewildered disbelief.

“ ‘Fraid not.” I patted his hand and left.

My neck’s a little sore this morning from the strain of holding it up so high.

So today I’m just out there doing my best not to get too cocky and praying for low humidity (I’ve put my elf outfit back on and I’m making peanut brittle to sale at a bazaar to build up the kitty for next Christmas’s toy drive).

Welcome To The World, Atalie Jolene!!

Every child begins the world again.... ~Henry David Thoreau

Day 134

My granddaughter was born yesterday.  Ol' Hank was right when he said what he said above, I have a whole new world to live in.  A world that has Atalie Jolene in it and I'll be able to give her a world in which she has a sober grandma.  I am so thankful for that.

As I returned my son's phone call yesterday via Skype, I had the thought, "Hey, I don't have to try to cover up the fact that I've been drinking, or wait until I sober up a little before I make this call."  I'm so thankful for that, too.

I am so full of hopes and dreams for this baby girl, and so full of hopes and dreams for me.  I'm looking out at the beach as I type this and I can see her with her with her little beach bag bending over to pick up a pretty shell and then squealing and running as the cold water from the gulf rushes in to kiss her toes.  I can see a bevy of well-loved dolls gathered around a little table up in the dome as Princess Atalie serves them tea up in her tower.  (I've had the tiny little china tea set for years, just waiting for her to get here.)

I can see her painting a pretty pink birdhouse with lots of yellow daisies and purple butterflies to hang high in the pine trees above the tire swing at my cabin in Colorado.  I see snow angels taking flight as a little angel in red boots falls back giggling, flapping arms and legs in the soft snow.  I feel a sleepy head on my shoulder as the dancing flames of a campfire settle down to glowing embers.

I feel tears of joy on my cheek as I type this.  Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

Welcome to my new world, Atalie Jolene!

Message From Afar

love builds up the broken wall

and straightens the crooked path.

love keeps the stars in the firmament

and imposes rhythm on the ocean tides

each of us is created of it

and i suspect

each of us was created for it”

--Maya Angelou

Day 120

Some miracles can be buried and lose their shine in the razor sharp sands of time that wash in and pile up in a short 24 hours.  I wanted to write about yesterday’s miracle while it was shiny and new but because of a shortage of that shifty thing called time, I didn’t.  Now I find myself doubting that it was even a miracle at all and I’m frantically brushing off the sand and spitting and rubbing trying to bring it back to its original  luster.

I was walking my strand of beach yesterday scanning the sand for treasure, I’m not really a shell collector but I always manage to return back to the casa with one arm an inch longer from carrying a bag of sea junk.  Up ahead of me was a Mexican man also carrying a mesh bag and poking around in the sand and rocks, this was strange because he didn’t look like a “spit and polish” Meridian here for a holiday, instead, with his sun faded, frayed clothing and weathered face, he looked like one of the local fisherman.  Believe me, those poor souls don’t have time to play shell seekers.

I watched from afar as he prodded and dug at something in the sand until finally curiosity got the better of me and I walked up to see what he was so intent on digging up.  As I approached I saw him digging along the edge of a large buried slab of concrete.  He looked up at me and smiled and I tried idiotically to pantomime that the chunk of concrete would be too big for his bag and too heavy to carry.  He went back to digging and I continued on along the beach.  I hadn’t gone far when I heard him approaching from behind me. 

“Senora,” he called.

I turned and he held out his hand to show me what he had been digging for.

It was a starfish.

Now if you’ve read through all of my blogs, you know that starfish hold a certain significance for me.  Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote about a starfish I found on the beach and I blogged about my mother and told about the priest calling her a Starfish Thrower in his homily at her funeral. So when the fisherman showed me his treasure, I knew it was special.  I knew it was a miracle.  I just didn’t know what it meant.

This morning I think I’ve figured it out.

As I grow older, I grow more and more comfortable with and proud of the similarities between my mother and me. For years I tried to deny them but one glaring similarity that couldn’t be ignored is the fact that both of us are married to “drinkers”.  Although I would never say that I was scarred by my dad’s drinking, I was definitely affected by it.  It was always there in the background, laced through all the years of my childhood.  Though not constant, the arguments about his drinking were frequent enough and frightful to me as a child. That may explain some of the fear I’m feeling these days.    I’ve been browsing the message boards lately in search of a means to bring a resolution and some peace to my turmoil in dealing with the capn’s drinking.  I’ve read a lot about detachment as a means of survival.  I don’t like how detachment sounds. It scares me. I don’t want to detach from anything.  I feel like that was what I was doing when I was drinking.  I tell myself that the cap’n and I love each other too much to end up like the testimonies that I’ve read.  I’m scared that those women told themselves the same thing.

 My dad never quit drinking, but in the last few years of Mom’s life there seemed to be less turmoil about it and there was a peace in their marriage.  Maybe Mom finally learned to detach herself, but I don’t think so.  I never knew that woman to detach from anything, we worked in the same hospital every day and she still called me nightly to check up on me. That’s how I viewed her phone calls then, now I think maybe she was just lonely.  I get that.

No, I don’t think she detached.  Instead I think Dad was one of her starfish.  I’m sure that sometimes the same starfish strand themselves over and over on the rocky shores and you have to keep picking them up and tossing them to safety.  Hopefully every time you fling them, your arm gets a little stronger and they end up further and further until they are finally far enough that they no longer feel the pull of the perilous coastline.  Or at least you get some respite.

I think Mom was just trying to tell me not to give up.  Or maybe she was just letting me know she’s still checking up on me. Lol

I tried to hand the starfish back to the fisherman but he shook his head and pointed to me.  It was a regalo.  A gift.

We parted and walked opposite ways on the beach.  The starfish curled up one of its legs in my hand.  It was still alive.  I looked over my shoulder to make sure my new friend wasn’t watching and I flung that little starfish with all my might into the outgoing tide.

Today I’m just out there doing my best to keep my miracles spit and polished and pumping my little two pound barbells as hard as I can.  The cap’n better watch out, who knows where I might fling him.

P.S.  There were some incidences I was involved in on the message boards last night that I’m not feeling particularly proud of this morning.  Some of God’s creatures that get flung from the sea onto the beach are not as benign or beguiling as the starfish.  Some of them are like the blue “Medusa” jellyfish that I also find on the beach.  You need to give these creatures a wide berth because even though they may look dead and harmless their long tentacles that are buried in the sand can still cause you extreme harm.   As malevolent as these creatures may seem, they may just be scared, too, and are using the only line of defense that is left to them.  There is no need to poke at them with your pointy stick and cause them even more misery.  I am sorry.

Bearing Gifts From Afar

The Nativity in our village church.  My blanket is folded up neatly in the corner.  I guess Baby Jesus got too hot.

Yesterday is history.  Tomorrow is a mystery.  And today?  Today is a gift.  That's why we call it the present.  ~Babatunde Olatunji, also attributed to Alice Morse Earle

Day 116

Good Morning!  I know it’s another “Act Like I’m Not A Drunk Saturday” but I’ve decided to do a regular blog today because I’ve been kind of busy/lazy this week and haven’t written much, plus I can’t think of anything to write that is worthy of ALINADS (Act Like I’m Not A Drunk Saturday) status, plus it’s my blog and I can do anything I want with it.  So there.

So now in a more charitable timbre, yesterday was el Dia de las Reyes Mago,  or Three Kings Day down here which celebrates the day that the three kings arrived bearing gifts for the Christ Child.  It is a day of great celebration here in a country that finds a reason almost every day to throw a party.

Anyway…I had my own gift I wanted to give the Christ Child yesterday, it wasn’t frankincense, myrrh, or gold, although I did try to talk the cap’n into throwing a gold coin in the coffers but let’s just say he doesn’t possess the same generous spirit that I do.  My gift was a baby blanket that I had knitted a couple of years ago.  The blanket’s pattern is called the tree of life and it includes bare branched trees on both ends of the blanket and rows of tulips in the middle. More tulips with their twisting stems and leaves border the entire blanket.  It’s an odd theme for a baby blanket with its stark naked trees and spring tulips, but I guess it is supposed to signify the cycles of life and birth.  I do know that it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever knitted and I learned a lot of new stitches and techniques through trial and error and demonstration (Thank you, internet and KnitWitch youtube videos)while I was completing it.  I did a lot of rip-outs and redo’s and I actually abandoned the whole thing for several months.  When I picked it back up, it almost seemed easier to rip the whole thing out and start over but instead I decided to go back, figure out where I had left off, find my mistakes, correct them and go on.

I didn’t realize until I was writing this how much that little blanket represents my life.  It seems like a worthy gift for a King.

So I went to our little church yesterday morning to present my gift.  I wanted to do it in secret, but there was a senora in the front row.  I decided to wait her out so I let the kneeler down and decided I’d have a little chat while I was waiting.  The kneelers in our simple little church are narrow and they are not padded so for me there is a tendency to keep my reflections short and when I saw the senora stretch out her arms along the back of the pew (she was sitting) and kick off her shoes, I decided I would continue my stealthy (I don’t think that’s a word but, again, this is my blog and I can do what I want)vigil across the square at my favorite taqueria.  After dos tacos I ventured back across the square and into the church.  It was empty.  I carefully picked my way through the assortment of barn animals that include a rearing stallion and a flamingo and gently placed my blanket over our Baby Jesus who is of grande proportions compared to his Mama and Papa (poor Mary) and is sporting eyelashes a young calf would covet and a knitted jumper and ski cap.  It’s been chilly down here.

Now he has my blanket for additional warmth.  As usual I like to attach an inordinate amount of importance to any gift I give and I wonder if years from now, the senoras of the altar guild will lovingly spread the blanket over the Baby Jesus and tell of its mysterious appearance on el Dia de las Reyes Magos many years ago.  Or will my humble little blanket be appropriated (aka stolen) for another poor baby in meager surroundings to be swaddled in.  I hope it’s the "latter"!!!! (If you read this before 11:17 pm CST, it mistakenly said  "former." It must be those last traces of alcohol still floating through my medulla oblangata.  Thanks for pointing it out Lulu, I'd rather have real baby slobbers any day.)

So today I’m just out there doing my best to keep spreading my gifts and watering that tree of life.

P.S. I'm going to a memorial mass for a friend's mother this morning and I'll get a pic of our Baby Jesus and the blanket.  If it's still there.

I've Got Your Back

Day 107

 I tumbled off my pink cloud today.  Sort of.  Remember Sandy, the dog I’m keeping for my friend, Greta (not her real name) who is recovering from a relapse?  Yesterday she dug a hole under my gate and managed to wiggle her way out, but I wasn’t too worried because I usually walk her on the beach without a leash and she runs off and won’t come back when I call her name but she eventually finds her way home and I know that Greta used to let her have free run at her place.  She has been fixed, thank God!

So this morning after our sprint on the beach, Sandy decided she wasn’t done with her morning exercise and when we returned home and I shut the gate behind us, she decided to wiggle out her new escape route again.  I called her name a couple of times but she didn’t come so I went about the business of fixing breakfast and sure enough when she smelled the bacon and eggs cooking she was right behind me in the kitchen.  I teased her a little bit and told her she had missed her desayuno of scrambled eggs but she and Stanley, the blind killer bichon with an abscessed tooth, both got their own bowls.  After breakfast I decided to water the plants and once more Sandy decided she’d had enough of the confines of our compound and once more I didn’t worry too much about it…until I heard that unmistakable squeal of tires and thud accompanied by a dog’s pain-filled yelps.

“Please oh please, God.  Let that be one of the hundreds of other dogs that are running loose in this village.”

But I knew it wasn’t.  I headed around the corner toward the highway and sure enough here came Sandy limping and yelping.  Shit!

I got her in the porch and I frantically called the vet that has been coming over to take care Stanley’s tooth.  Sandy limped into the flowerbed and collapsed.  She was breathing hard, but she didn’t seem to be hurt any place but her foot.  I picked her up to put her back in the porch where the vet could see to take care of her.  She yelped again in pain and I felt her teeth go through the tissues of my finger.  I knew she would never bite me on purpose, I knew she was in so much pain and shock that she was reacting out of her fear.  I’ve been there.

The vet arrived and tranquilized Sandy and inspected her.  She was pretty sure that it was just her foot that was injured but she would need to take her into Merida for x-rays.  She still had several dogs in her office so we decided to leave Sandy here at my house until she could take her.  She left and I had to call Greta.  We had just talked right before Sandy and I went for our walk on the beach.  Sandy was supposed to be going back to her mama tomorrow and Greta and I had made arrangements for me to drop her off at Greta’s new place.  Now this.

 I stumbled through the “I’ve got bad news but it’s not that bad of news…”  Greta seemed to take it okay and I didn’t hear any blame in her voice.

I hung up the phone and I broke down.  Maybe Greta didn’t blame me, but I sure blamed myself.  I should have been more careful.  I shouldn’t have let Sandy run free.  The cap’n had warned me that this exact thing would happen.  And I got that old familiar feeling.  Yep, you know the one I’m talking about.  I didn’t really feel the urge to drink but I recognized it as a feeling I would have tried to drink away in the past.  Then I got worried about Greta.

 I called her and said, “Now this is not something that is going to make either one of us start drinking, okay?” 

“Of course not,” she replied.

“Because it would have in the past, for me.”  I said.

“Yeah,” she replied, “It would have me, too.”

We assured each other that we were okay and I hung up the phone.

I had some friends over last night and the conversation turned to Greta.

“She’ll start drinking again.” one of my guests said.

“People change.” I argued.

“I guarantee it.” they insisted.  “She’s done it too many times before.”

“I wonder if they say the same thing about me?” I thought.

But they don’t know me.  And they don’t know my friend, Greta.  They don’t know how strong we are.

The vet just came back and took Sandy.  It’s been several hours since the accident and there are no signs of internal bleeding.  I am relieved but Stanley is still worried, he is wondering around looking for her and whining.  He crawled up and laid down beside her and never left her side all afternoon. (I have a pic but the camera transfer cord is in the capn’s computer bag with him back in CO.)  They haven’t been the best of friends since Sandy came to stay with us, more like wary cohabitants that give each other their “space”.  It reminds me of Greta and me, we weren’t close friends before but now, when the chips are down and everybody else is betting against us, we’ve got each other’s back. 

So today I’m just out there doing my best to place my bets on people and dogs that the odds are against, they always have the biggest payouts.

P.S. I will update you on Sandy.  And I want to thank you guys for the encouragement on my last blog.

P.P.S. Greta just called to check on Sandy, and to check on me.  "You're not drinking, are you?" she asked.  Do you know how good it felt to know that question was asked out of concern instead of derision?

"Of course not." I reassured her.

100 Days!

Day 100!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It’s good to be back, I missed you guys.  It’s been a hectic couple of weeks but I won’t bore you with the details right now because, in case you didn’t hear, today is numero 100 for me.  The cap’n called this morning and told me he is proud of me, my son fb’d me last night and told me he is proud of me, my non-drinking friends told me they are proud of me, my drinking friends told me they are proud of me (and then they asked me if I would be their designated driver tonight.lol) and best of all, I’m proud of me!  What more can a girl ask for?

I sat on my beach steps this morning before the sun came up and pondered what changes these 100 days have brought me.  They may not be visible to the naked eye but in my mind’s eye they are colossal. Here’s just a few I came up with.

  I have had 100 days of waking up rested instead of drunk, hungover, vomiting, wore out in body and soul.  I have had 100 days of self-respect instead of shame and embarrassment.  I have had 100 days of being able to smile or laugh if warranted and a lot less crying.  I have had 100 days full of expectation instead of dread.  I have had 100 days of fully appreciating my blessings instead of wishing away the hours until I could have a drink or go to bed because I was so damn tired.  I have had 100 days of hope instead of despair.  I have had 100 days of certainty instead of that damn incessantly questioning confusion. Good riddance, to that.  I have had 100 nights of dreams instead of endless hours of twisting anguish and regret.  I have had 100 days and nights of peace.

Thank You God!

When I read back over this, it does sound like I’ve just recovered from a horrible disease.  I’m so thankful that I’m choosing to recover.  It maybe later than sooner, but better late than never.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to keep this string of good fortune going for another 100 days and another and another and another…

All Is Not Lost

And yet, I suppose you mourn the loss or the death of what you thought your life was, even if you find your life is better after.  You mourn the future that you thought you'd planned.

--Lynn Redgrave

Day 89

Hey gang!  A year ago having me MIA for a week from this blog would have fostered ominous foreboding but I am happy to report that all is well down SOB (South of the Border).  I feel like I hit the tarmac running and I just now have a chance to catch my breath.  I had planned to go to Merida this morning but the weather is not cooperating, there are very few days in the Yucatan when I wish I had a fireplace but today is one of those days. Blustery, and rainy and a chilly 71 degrees Fahrenheit.  Boy, I sure do acclimate quickly, I’m still sitting here in my shorts but I’m just about ready to go upstairs and pull on some sweats and socks just like everybody that lives down here full time has been wearing for a few days. 

This week has been a week of revelations and while I have all day to write about each and every one of them, I know you, my loyal readers, would take one look at the length of the blog and decide you had better things to do, like read War and Peace.  So for today, I’ll just tell you about yesterday.

I sent the cap’n off to the airport in Merida at 5:00 am yesterday morning.  I gave him a kiss, pushed him out the gate, waved him off and turned around and faced the coming day like a big birthday gift I had been waiting weeks to open.  You see, I can probably count on one hand the number of days, in my entire life, that I have had completely to myself.  To try and envision three whole weeks of such days is just too overwhelming, so, as I have become quite adept at doing, I’m taking it one day at a time.

First I piddled around the casa for a couple of hours, I spent some time contemplating the Christmas tree lights, I drank some tea, I visited the message boards, drank some more tea, looked at the lights some more and then I went outside to piddle around in the garden for a bit.  Saturday is the day that the “plant guy” comes to the square in our little village, and I decided I needed to replace some plants that hadn’t withstood my desertion of the last couple months, so around 9:30 am I drove down to the square to see what the “plant guy” had to offer.  He wasn’t there so I settled in at my favorite little cocina economica and had a couple of tacos arrecharra with salsa and crema.  Pretty soon I saw a battered old scraped up van chug around the corner.  The plant guy had arrived.  I waited as he unloaded and then he and I began our pantomime attempt at communication.  I ended up with 4 poinsettia’s, 1 eucalyptus, 1 bougainvillea, 1 oleander, 1 vine of some sort, 2 rose bushes, and 2 tiny cacti for 480 pesos (about $35 US).  My friend Shelli puttered up on her scooter and together we found the nerve to haggle the price and the plant guy knocked off another 10 pesos (73 cents). That should teach him to try and take advantage of this gringa.

I hurried home and unloaded the plants.  A new Italian restaurant in Progreso was donating the entire day’s profits to the toy drive and a couple of my elf buddies and I had volunteered to help them out.  I picked up my fellow elves and we headed over the bridge to Progreso but before we started our afternoon of chopping and peeling vegetables we stopped off at the Progreso Mercado and meandered among the produce and flower stalls.  Each of us bought a bunch of bright purple bachelor buttons with the intentions of harvesting their seeds to plant in our stingy flowerbeds, then we sniffed appreciatively at the romero (rosemary) plants and tried to figure out why none of us have been able to get one to survive down here in a climate in which it seems they should thrive.  With a “never say die” bravado I bought two more sacrificial offerings.

We spent the afternoon helping Progreso Pasta’s proprietors prepare for the special evening of Christmas music and the “impossible to find in the Yucatan” delicacy of filet mignon.  They had to ship the beef in from Monterrey, them Yucatecan cows ain’t got no meat on their bones.  Now if we could just get russet potatoes and good corn, we’d have all of the comfort food of home.  The rumor that Mayan corn is good is a myth, I don’t know what corn god they were praying to but it was the wrong one.  They must have been worshipping the god of corn not fit for human consumption.

And now for the most important part of the day.  I bet you thought I’d never get here.  This blog reminds of a story one of my guests’s was telling last night, he paused in the middle of it and said, “Now, to make a long story short.”  And I thought, “Too late for that.”

At 4:00 pm I said “Ciao!” and headed home with my containers of lasagna, ravioli, and alfredo and five pieces of Drunken Deutschman cake.  I had invited a couple of couples over to eat take out.  I iced down the beer and I swear I never even considered having one.  It didn’t even cross my mind.  As my friends drank their beer and wine throughout the evening, I sipped on my sparkling cider and sat back, happy to be a spectator and participant and not the one woman act I always felt driven to be when I was drinking.  None of my friends seemed to take notice of my not drinking, if they did, they didn’t comment on it and it sure didn’t seem to deter them from their drinking.  There did seem to be something missing (other than the cap’n) but I don’t know if anybody noticed it but me. There was the same jostling to be the first one to get a word in, there was the same amount of laughter and hilarity, but missing was that escalation into brash awkward drunkenness that seemed to permeate my parties of the past and when  my guests left to get in their cars or stroll down the calle to their casas they seemed to leave with a sense of comfortable well-being instead of the riotous, on edge, over the top, out of control (do I need to go on?)desperate hysteria I remember. I have full confidence that all awoke this morning with good memories of the evening.  Their heads might have ached a little but there was no pain of regret gnawing at their innards.  One more thing that I had mourned as lost when I gave up drinking, good times with good friends, is resurrected in a new and much improved form.

I cleaned up and went to bed with the same sense of well-being and it wasn’t until this morning that I realized that I didn’t even consider having a glass of wine to wind down, even though there was half of an open bottle left on the counter.

So to make a long story short, you don’t have to give up everything you love when you quit drinking, but you do have to give up the drinking.

So today I’m out there just doing my best to be more succinct and making the most of the 19 days, 8 hours, and 32 minutes of alone time I have left.

P.S.  A year ago, I would have allowed myself to have one or two celebratory glasses of wine when I arrived in Mexico and by this time a week later I would have been in the depths of withdrawal and a day like yesterday wouldn’t have been in the realm of possibility.

Happy Sunday, Mom!



I feel like a tiny bird with a big song!

Jerry Van Amerongen, Ballard Street, 08-18-05

Day 75
I had a friend from the message boards ask me the other day whether I ever missed drinking. I had to think. I told her I spent more time worrying about or anticipating missing it than I did actually missing it. I said, “Looking back I thought I had fun when I was drinking but I didn’t have any joy. Now I have both.”
I’ve mentioned in earlier posts that I do this exercise every morning of writing my “morning pages.” It consist of scrawling three pages of supposedly random thoughts, it is supposed to spark my creativity. Lately my morning pages have taken the form of letters to my mother. Here’s what I wrote Mom this morning.

Happy Sunday Mom,

I’m sorry I haven’t written in a couple of days but don’t worry, I’m okay. I’m better than okay. It is a wonderful thing to have joy come back into my life. I hadn’t even noticed it was gone. How could I not have missed it, Mom? How did I live so long without it? It colors everything. It’s the reason I get up in the morning. I’m finding that girl I was again, probably that girl I was trying to find for so long in a bottle. I hope I don’t lose her again.

You remember her. She’s the girl that gives her husband hugs about fifty times a day because she just can’t help herself. She’s the girl that scoops Stanley, the blind killer bichon, up in her arms and dances around with him in the whirling snow. She’s the girl that makes a playlist of Christmas songs by Bing, Dean (your favorite), Nat, and Doris and sings along with them while she does the dishes. She’s the girl that calls her step daughter-in-law just to yak about a book they both read and ends up yakking with her stepson (that’s awkward since we’re only 7 years apart in age) instead and cries a little when he tells her he loves her as he hands the phone to his wife. She’s the girl who stands out in the dark in the middle of a frigid mountain night and gazes mesmerized by the stars.

She’s the girl who couldn’t wait to get up and tell you all of this, Mom. I sure missed her and I know you did, too. I know you are so happy and relieved to have your daughter back. I’m sorry I worried you for so long.

I’d better go, Mom. I can’t wait to see what this day has in store for me. Manana!
I Love You,
Kary May

Today I’m just out there doing my best to stop worrying my mother and enjoying my winter wonderland for just a few more days. Sing it, Dean!

Shopping Frenzy

Pleasure is spread through the earth

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

~William Wordsworth, 1806

Day 73

First off I have to say that yesterday was the least stressful, most joyous Thanksgiving I’ve ever had. That is one more milestone achieved for me, my first major holiday without alcohol was a total success and I will not worry near as much about the next one. The unknown is now known and found to be of superior quality.

Now it’s time to shop. Am I crazy? I don’t think so. I have no intention of stepping foot in one of those insane asylums we call malls or discount stores. I’m going to shop right here in front of my roaring crackling fire, with my sweats and fuzzy house shoes on, Christmas music floating through the headphones and a cup of tea at my elbow. Yeah, I know I’m going to miss all those Black Friday deals that would save me hundreds of dollars but that’s okay because what I’m shopping for shouldn’t cost much, it probably won’t cost anything at all. Obviously, I’m not shopping for the kids or grandkids, they still have the ignorant belief that things of value must have a price tag on them, poor things. No, I’m not shopping to find something for a special someone, but I am shopping for that “just right” gift for a special soul. My sober soul.

I read all the time on the message boards about members that are bored. What are they supposed to do with all of this extra time on their hands, where’s the fun in being sober? Just like my grandkids who think fun comes with a joy stick and then wonder about aimlessly whining, “There’s nothing to do” when the game is broken or, more often, when they are grounded from it, so are we drunks when our bottle of fun has been taken away from us. We’d rather whine and sulk then go look for something else to do. Yet when our kids or grandkids come to us with their complaints what do we tell them? Well, I know what I tell mine. I roll my eyes and say,” What do you mean there’s nothing to do? Go read a book. Write a story. Paint a picture. Go outside and build a treehouse or a fort. Go explore, look for arrowheads or cool rocks.” Are you getting the idea?

A sober soul doesn’t like to get bored. It whines and it sulks and it looks with longing at the liquor cabinet or the keys to the car that will take it to its favorite bar. It’s up to us to find other things to keep it occupied. Look at the list above. Do any of them appeal to a newly sober soul? Of course not, because just like our kids, all that our sober soul wants, is what it can’t have.

Too damn bad!

 How many times have you told your kids, “Fine, go ahead and sulk but go outside or to your room to do it” and when you look in on them an hour later you find them totally involved in building that fort or entranced by a book they’re reading? We have to do the same thing to our sober soul, send it outside or to its room and let it sulk until it finally decides out of desperation to pick up that paintbrush or hammer or hiking boots. Does this mean our kids will now turn up their noses at the Wii or Playstation once it’s available to them again? Unfortunately no, and we parents are often too weak or too weary to continue the battle and we surrender even though we know that the other endeavors were so much better for them. It’s the same for us drunks, if all of a sudden someone said we could drink again, would we turn our noses up at it because we’ve found something that is better for us, something that gives us longer lasting, authentic joy? I think it depends on whether we’re still stubbornly sitting on that front step or on the edge of our beds with our chins in our hands sulking about what we can’t have or whether we’ve made ourselves go out and find something better and put our whole hearts and sober souls into it. Because “it” is out there waiting for us, and "it" will fill us up with joy in ways that perpetually diminishing bottle of fun never will.

I still sulk occasionally, probably for a few minutes every day, but it’s not out of boredom. I’ve said plenty of times that there are not enough hours in the day for my sober soul to do everything it wants to do, what with my walking, writing, knitting, cooking, reading and message board chatting but keeping my sober soul busy is not enough, it wants to be enchanted and challenged, entranced and thrilled. It still just wants to have fun. It’s always asking for new things, telling me I wasted too much time. So today I’m shopping for something new for it to do, it deserves a reward for behaving so well yesterday. I’m thinking about getting it some yoga. Sure, it will bitch and moan about it and probably try to return it but I’m going to do my best to encourage it to stick with it. My sober soul needs to learn to stretch and become more limber but it also needs to learn to relax and just breathe, too. It wouldn’t hurt my sober body either.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to find something that will surprise and delight my sober soul and googling “yoga for the middle-aged and woefully out of shape soul.”

HeartFull

For each new morning with its light,

For rest and shelter of the night,

For health and food, for love and friends,

For everything Thy goodness sends.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Day 72

Happy, Happy Thanksgiving!

Across the river, Mary stands, watching tranquilly from the riverbank. I try to make it over there on a daily basis to lay my hand on her head and ask for her guidance and a measure of her grace. I step carefully this morning when I make my way across the frost laden bridge. Fragrant steam rises from cup of tea that is warming my hands and a thick bed of pine needles cushions my footfall on the other side. I place my hand on her cold head in my familiar custom for a brief moment and then I sit down beside her to hear what she hears and to see what she sees. The sun is just peaking over the pines and washing the snow in an early morning blush. The woodsmoke is curling from our chimney. A squirrel gives chase after the bandit that stole his pinecone. The gypsy river gurgles its protest to the creaking cover of ice that holds it down and keeps it from dancing among the rocks.  The wings of a blue jay whisper in the branches above.

I had planned to write a progression of the last few Thanksgivings, starting with a boozy, slurring one spent among fellow boaters and then progressing to last year’s Thanksgiving when I was early in my pilgrimage to the new land of sobriety and my sons looked on with wary eyes as I opened the second bottle of champagne. But I don’t want to go back there. Instead I just want to be right here in this hard-won new joy and peace, with the sun shining on my face.

Today I’m just out there doing my best to be as thankful as I should be.