Loss: The hurtful condition of having lost something or someone.
So my sponsor makes the much deserved and much desired transition from Here to The Big Meeting In The Sky. My mother passes peacefully as well, not six hours later.
Freaky. Not a day I'll forget soon.
I'm upset in a diffuse way but not devastated although I'm sure that things will intensify once I'm boots-on-the-ground in The Old City. I got to talk for many hours with Ken as his cancer made its grim march through his major organ systems. He was at peace and ready to move on . I learned a great deal and grew a great deal spiritually during this process, talking openly about death and dying and love and what comes next. One of my greatest life adventures. It just goes to show me that I can always be passing along a spiritual message no matter what my circumstances are.
My mama suffered a devastating injury from which she never really recovered. I didn't get to speak a single word with her after this event but I knew she was pain-free, spiritually and emotionally secure. She had been having many small ischemic events over the last few months and I worried about her long term well-being - I believe the choice wasn't going to be between recovery and death but somewhere more shadowy and indistinct. I don't think anyone wants to hang on in a nursing home, greatly diminished. That being said her passing on may have been a blessing in disguise.
Ken went to a lot of funerals for other residents of his retirement community. I commented on this once and he replied: "You know, Seaweed, at my age there are a lot more funerals than christenings."
I'll feel the loss of both of these people and I'll feel the loss in different ways.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Always With The Loopholes
Seemingly: To appearances; apparently.
I rang up Willie the other day to go over my behavior and my motives with my family - as usual, he was mildly helpful, probably because he had drifted off somewhere nicer when I was talking. Tit for tat, so to speak. Our conversation included a discussion of my near-death sponsor and I was taken aback when he said that he would pray for him. Funny, this Program: I talk all the time to profane, irreverent guys, picking apart the world in venomous detail, but not really meaning it deep down inside. Still, I'm sometimes surprised when the real Willie or LWSJ or Seaweed comes out. I don't know why this is - we're all working good Programs which means we're doing things that run counter to our way-cool outer personas.
"Of course, the guy prays," I thought. "Why would I assume anything but?"
Nobody asks me to talk for months and then this week I give a full hour lead, help out on a panel at a recovery house, and am on tap to kick things off with a 5 minute talk at both my Wed and Sat meetings. I figure I'm so spiritual that I'm becoming a charismatic presence all over Vacation City or I'm so fucked up that people are doing whatever they can to get me to meetings.
I read from the books. I can't imagine that anyone wants to listen to me pour over the excruciating minutiae of my boring life for more than 30 seconds.
Here's what's on tap for tonight, right outta the book:
"Or, if my disturbance was seemingly caused by the behavior of others, why do I lack the ability to accept conditions I cannot change?" (Ed. Note: love the use of "seemingly." Even our founders were looking for a loophole).
"The moment we ponder a broken or twisted relationship with another person, our emotions go on the defensive. To escape looking at the wrongs we have done another, we resentfully focus on the wrong he has done us. . . . Let's remember that alcoholics are not the only ones bedeviled by sick emotions."
"Finally we begin to see that all people, including ourselves, are to some extent emotionally ill as well as frequently wrong, and then we approach true tolerance and see what real love for our fellows actually means."
All good stuff, yeah.
I rang up Willie the other day to go over my behavior and my motives with my family - as usual, he was mildly helpful, probably because he had drifted off somewhere nicer when I was talking. Tit for tat, so to speak. Our conversation included a discussion of my near-death sponsor and I was taken aback when he said that he would pray for him. Funny, this Program: I talk all the time to profane, irreverent guys, picking apart the world in venomous detail, but not really meaning it deep down inside. Still, I'm sometimes surprised when the real Willie or LWSJ or Seaweed comes out. I don't know why this is - we're all working good Programs which means we're doing things that run counter to our way-cool outer personas.
"Of course, the guy prays," I thought. "Why would I assume anything but?"
Nobody asks me to talk for months and then this week I give a full hour lead, help out on a panel at a recovery house, and am on tap to kick things off with a 5 minute talk at both my Wed and Sat meetings. I figure I'm so spiritual that I'm becoming a charismatic presence all over Vacation City or I'm so fucked up that people are doing whatever they can to get me to meetings.
I read from the books. I can't imagine that anyone wants to listen to me pour over the excruciating minutiae of my boring life for more than 30 seconds.
Here's what's on tap for tonight, right outta the book:
"Or, if my disturbance was seemingly caused by the behavior of others, why do I lack the ability to accept conditions I cannot change?" (Ed. Note: love the use of "seemingly." Even our founders were looking for a loophole).
"The moment we ponder a broken or twisted relationship with another person, our emotions go on the defensive. To escape looking at the wrongs we have done another, we resentfully focus on the wrong he has done us. . . . Let's remember that alcoholics are not the only ones bedeviled by sick emotions."
"Finally we begin to see that all people, including ourselves, are to some extent emotionally ill as well as frequently wrong, and then we approach true tolerance and see what real love for our fellows actually means."
All good stuff, yeah.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Don't Wanna Go
I was rehashing my non-decision to do or not do something or the other regarding my family back in The Old City because it's what we drunks do: rehash things endlessly. I noticed that one of my big justifications was the money I'd have to spend and I thought: "It's enough with the money already." I realized that the money, while not to be discounted, is a subterfuge for the real reason that I'm not on a plane right now: I don't want to go. If I wanted to go I'd spend the money.
That being said there's this: I AM careful with my money and it IS a relatively expensive trip to get back to The Old City which, for some incomprehensible reason, has very high fares in the middle of the winter. This line of thought is OK - not totally commendable but understandable, reasonable. Then we get into the subcutaneous stuff, the resentment stuff - my family has never come out here; my family doesn't offer to chip in when I go back there; my family won't pick me up at the airport or drop me off for my return flight unless it's damn convenient for them, leaving me to foot the bill for cars and hotels and the like.
Not trusting my own ability to think like an adult I have been bouncing all of this off my friends in recovery who, for some reason - the bastards - aren't telling me what to do. I never realized how annoying it is to tell someone that you have faith that they'll handle a sticky situation appropriately. I guess the acid test for me is that I'm at peace with my relationship with my sponsor and I'm at peace with my relationships with my family. This doesn't mean I can't act better or keep learning but that I'm doing the best I can with what I've got at this moment in time.
That being said there's this: I AM careful with my money and it IS a relatively expensive trip to get back to The Old City which, for some incomprehensible reason, has very high fares in the middle of the winter. This line of thought is OK - not totally commendable but understandable, reasonable. Then we get into the subcutaneous stuff, the resentment stuff - my family has never come out here; my family doesn't offer to chip in when I go back there; my family won't pick me up at the airport or drop me off for my return flight unless it's damn convenient for them, leaving me to foot the bill for cars and hotels and the like.
Not trusting my own ability to think like an adult I have been bouncing all of this off my friends in recovery who, for some reason - the bastards - aren't telling me what to do. I never realized how annoying it is to tell someone that you have faith that they'll handle a sticky situation appropriately. I guess the acid test for me is that I'm at peace with my relationship with my sponsor and I'm at peace with my relationships with my family. This doesn't mean I can't act better or keep learning but that I'm doing the best I can with what I've got at this moment in time.
Monday, February 23, 2015
Conundrum Time
Suffering: A state of pain or distress.
Last rites for my sponsor yesterday. Mom, released from the ICU to a nursing facility associated with her retirement home, promptly falls and breaks her hip, and is back in the hospital. My sister sent a note saying that she's really out of it and that the medical personnel aren't sure if this is an adverse reaction to the anesthesia or a symptom of a permanent condition. She may be too old and too weak to snap out of it.
I'm not thrilled by any of this news. This is part and parcel of the uncomfortable stuff that we have to put up with whether we want to or not, and I'm in a place where I can deal with it reasonably. My sponsor is a piece of cake - we've had a few months to talk about death and dying from soup to nuts so I'm in a good place with him. Sad but no regrets. He knows that I'm not making the long trip back when he does die and I'm sure he would've told me not to come if I had asked.
My family, however, is a different perplexity altogether. It's a long and expensive trip to a place in the grip of a cold winter and, as I've made clear, I'm not thick as thieves with these people. I love them and I want to be supportive but it's not like they're right down the block and it's not like they made any effort to stay in touch when I was right down the block. Or, to quote Little Westside Jonny: "It's not like we can just jump on a bus and get out of here."
I put together a few tortured notes to my sister this morning trying to get across the idea that I'd like to come home once, if possible: now, to help out, or after my mother dies, if that's indeed in the offing, no sure thing. I'm telling you that it was one tortured, bullshit note after another - I sounded whiny or defensive or uninterested, sometimes all at once. I got precisely none of these notes cleared by my Public Editor, SuperK. She wasn't trying to be mean; she was really trying to help but nothing sounded good at all.
I settled on this: "What can I do to help?"
I then called my Vacation City sponsor - soon to be known simply as "my sponsor" - and I called Willie so that I could bounce this bullshit off a couple of trusted, disinterested parties. They recognized the conundrum; they validated my behavior; they wished me good luck. As it should be: I'm not looking for someone to make my decisions for me but rather to help me make sure my behavior is not too crappy. I want to be able to look back at whatever I decide to do with no regrets.
I like this line from our literature: "Until now, our lives had been largely devoted to running from pain and problems. We never wanted to deal with the fact of suffering."
Last rites for my sponsor yesterday. Mom, released from the ICU to a nursing facility associated with her retirement home, promptly falls and breaks her hip, and is back in the hospital. My sister sent a note saying that she's really out of it and that the medical personnel aren't sure if this is an adverse reaction to the anesthesia or a symptom of a permanent condition. She may be too old and too weak to snap out of it.
I'm not thrilled by any of this news. This is part and parcel of the uncomfortable stuff that we have to put up with whether we want to or not, and I'm in a place where I can deal with it reasonably. My sponsor is a piece of cake - we've had a few months to talk about death and dying from soup to nuts so I'm in a good place with him. Sad but no regrets. He knows that I'm not making the long trip back when he does die and I'm sure he would've told me not to come if I had asked.
My family, however, is a different perplexity altogether. It's a long and expensive trip to a place in the grip of a cold winter and, as I've made clear, I'm not thick as thieves with these people. I love them and I want to be supportive but it's not like they're right down the block and it's not like they made any effort to stay in touch when I was right down the block. Or, to quote Little Westside Jonny: "It's not like we can just jump on a bus and get out of here."
I put together a few tortured notes to my sister this morning trying to get across the idea that I'd like to come home once, if possible: now, to help out, or after my mother dies, if that's indeed in the offing, no sure thing. I'm telling you that it was one tortured, bullshit note after another - I sounded whiny or defensive or uninterested, sometimes all at once. I got precisely none of these notes cleared by my Public Editor, SuperK. She wasn't trying to be mean; she was really trying to help but nothing sounded good at all.
I settled on this: "What can I do to help?"
I then called my Vacation City sponsor - soon to be known simply as "my sponsor" - and I called Willie so that I could bounce this bullshit off a couple of trusted, disinterested parties. They recognized the conundrum; they validated my behavior; they wished me good luck. As it should be: I'm not looking for someone to make my decisions for me but rather to help me make sure my behavior is not too crappy. I want to be able to look back at whatever I decide to do with no regrets.
I like this line from our literature: "Until now, our lives had been largely devoted to running from pain and problems. We never wanted to deal with the fact of suffering."
Sunday, February 22, 2015
CONSTRUCTIVE Criticism
Criticize: To find fault. (Ed. Note: That definition gets down to business, real quick like.)
So I gave a lead last night, or I qualified or told my story: what it was like, what happened, and what it's like now. As a general rule I'm not a big fan of speaker meetings - I can barely stay focused when I'm speaking, a fact that doesn't speak well to my ability to pay attention when other people are speaking. One of the great rules of writing is you are not nearly as interesting to others as you are to yourself. I think I dozed off a couple of times on my feet last night. Why someone would voluntarily come to what could be a perfectly good meeting to listen to someone drone on and on about themselves is beyond my ability to comprehend. Plus, the meeting started at 8:30 which is past my bedtime although they had cake AND cookies.
I gave my little spiel and sat down. A few people thanked me for talking but most just drifted out, on to live their lives, as they should - I'm under no illusion that what I say is any better or any worse than anyone else. We're drunks, not professional speakers or comedians working out their bits. The first speaker was a young woman with just a little sobriety, clearly very nervous, and she was great which speaks to the fact that it's not the length of sobriety - it's the quality that matters.
A dude I know somewhat came over and, without preliminaries, criticized my effort. He started out by saying that I needed speak more loudly which stopped me in my tracks. I was literally speechless. I have a big voice and I've been criticized many, many times for talking too loudly, never for not talking loud enough. This guy's a bit of a flake and his criticism was without venom but still, I can't ever remember being schooled on my lead. If I hear someone who really sucks as a speaker I still thank them. It's not easy to get up in front of a group of people and speak off the cuff for 45 minutes.
The assault continued. I had concentrated on my recovery and not on my exploits that led me to seek my recovery, using some of our literature to read a few sentences that have really spoke to me lately. My self-appointed mentor said that he had given a lead a few times using the same technique and blah, blah, blah, what people really want is to laugh. He shared an exchange we had a while back on family and said it made him laugh and that would have been a better approach.
I didn't try to explain that what might be appropriate in a more intimate setting might not be appropriate in front of a large group.
I put my arm around him.
"You know that I'm going to do whatever the hell I want?" I remarked.
"Oh, absolutely," he laughed.
So I gave a lead last night, or I qualified or told my story: what it was like, what happened, and what it's like now. As a general rule I'm not a big fan of speaker meetings - I can barely stay focused when I'm speaking, a fact that doesn't speak well to my ability to pay attention when other people are speaking. One of the great rules of writing is you are not nearly as interesting to others as you are to yourself. I think I dozed off a couple of times on my feet last night. Why someone would voluntarily come to what could be a perfectly good meeting to listen to someone drone on and on about themselves is beyond my ability to comprehend. Plus, the meeting started at 8:30 which is past my bedtime although they had cake AND cookies.
I gave my little spiel and sat down. A few people thanked me for talking but most just drifted out, on to live their lives, as they should - I'm under no illusion that what I say is any better or any worse than anyone else. We're drunks, not professional speakers or comedians working out their bits. The first speaker was a young woman with just a little sobriety, clearly very nervous, and she was great which speaks to the fact that it's not the length of sobriety - it's the quality that matters.
A dude I know somewhat came over and, without preliminaries, criticized my effort. He started out by saying that I needed speak more loudly which stopped me in my tracks. I was literally speechless. I have a big voice and I've been criticized many, many times for talking too loudly, never for not talking loud enough. This guy's a bit of a flake and his criticism was without venom but still, I can't ever remember being schooled on my lead. If I hear someone who really sucks as a speaker I still thank them. It's not easy to get up in front of a group of people and speak off the cuff for 45 minutes.
The assault continued. I had concentrated on my recovery and not on my exploits that led me to seek my recovery, using some of our literature to read a few sentences that have really spoke to me lately. My self-appointed mentor said that he had given a lead a few times using the same technique and blah, blah, blah, what people really want is to laugh. He shared an exchange we had a while back on family and said it made him laugh and that would have been a better approach.
I didn't try to explain that what might be appropriate in a more intimate setting might not be appropriate in front of a large group.
I put my arm around him.
"You know that I'm going to do whatever the hell I want?" I remarked.
"Oh, absolutely," he laughed.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Effulgency
Effulgent: Shining; resplendent; radiant (Ed. Note: I don't think I'm going to be able to get this word into the text today - I'm saying this upfront - but it's a great word that I looked up recently and if I don't use it real quick-like I'm going to lose it).
So I'm still trying to get my stomach, my bowels, and my sleep patterns back onto Vacation City time. My bounce-back-ability is not what it used to be. Oh yeah, and my Buddha-like, Zen-erific sense of calm and peace, an unflappability unheard of in the modern Western world, keeps dancing just out of reach.
I drove over to my favorite coffee shop yesterday to get a cup of overpriced specialty coffee. I pulled into a spot on a public street across from the shopping center and de-energized my engine, eschewing the parking lot. I do this sometimes - I have a dark car which I knew would bake in the hot sun and there are a few big shade trees on the verge of this street.
As I get out of the car the front door of an apartment nearby opens and a woman says: "Are you going over to the shopping center?"
I knew this wasn't going to lead anywhere that I wanted to go.
"Yes," I replied politely, eschewing my initial inclination to say something along the lines of "Fuck is to you?"
"Then you need to park over there," she said.
I paused. (Ed Note: "Nothing pays off like restraint of tongue and pen. We must avoid quick-tempered criticism and furious, power-driven argument." Go look it up.)
"Really?" I said, dubiousness dripping from my sulking and silently scornful lips.
"Oh, yeah," she replied.
"I don't think so, " I said. "This is a public street." (Ed. Note: My brain was trying to relay a message down to my mouth along the lines of "Shut the fuck up" but it was being derailed by my Id or something effulgent like that).
I don't recall whether she spoke again or not but fortunately my brain managed to get a message that at least approached reasonability down to my mouth.
"I'll move," I said. "I don't have any problem moving (Ed. Note: Big lie there. Big, big lie.) but I really think you're wrong."
I swear to god she didn't say anything else but clasped her hands together and began nodding in a vaguely "Namaste" fashion.
"This is a public street - I really think you're wrong," I said again, uselessly, redundantly, my mouth trying to seize control back from my brain - you'd think the brain would be in the superior position considering it's dealing with the mouth but you'd be wrong a lot of the time. I was so right and I wanted credit for my magnanimous gesture.
I moved the car. I was under a Boil Watch for a half hour or so but the heat got turned down.
When I left I noted that there was no car in my vacated spot. And that the sun had shifted so that my car would have been in the full sun.
So I'm still trying to get my stomach, my bowels, and my sleep patterns back onto Vacation City time. My bounce-back-ability is not what it used to be. Oh yeah, and my Buddha-like, Zen-erific sense of calm and peace, an unflappability unheard of in the modern Western world, keeps dancing just out of reach.
I drove over to my favorite coffee shop yesterday to get a cup of overpriced specialty coffee. I pulled into a spot on a public street across from the shopping center and de-energized my engine, eschewing the parking lot. I do this sometimes - I have a dark car which I knew would bake in the hot sun and there are a few big shade trees on the verge of this street.
As I get out of the car the front door of an apartment nearby opens and a woman says: "Are you going over to the shopping center?"
I knew this wasn't going to lead anywhere that I wanted to go.
"Yes," I replied politely, eschewing my initial inclination to say something along the lines of "Fuck is to you?"
"Then you need to park over there," she said.
I paused. (Ed Note: "Nothing pays off like restraint of tongue and pen. We must avoid quick-tempered criticism and furious, power-driven argument." Go look it up.)
"Really?" I said, dubiousness dripping from my sulking and silently scornful lips.
"Oh, yeah," she replied.
"I don't think so, " I said. "This is a public street." (Ed. Note: My brain was trying to relay a message down to my mouth along the lines of "Shut the fuck up" but it was being derailed by my Id or something effulgent like that).
I don't recall whether she spoke again or not but fortunately my brain managed to get a message that at least approached reasonability down to my mouth.
"I'll move," I said. "I don't have any problem moving (Ed. Note: Big lie there. Big, big lie.) but I really think you're wrong."
I swear to god she didn't say anything else but clasped her hands together and began nodding in a vaguely "Namaste" fashion.
"This is a public street - I really think you're wrong," I said again, uselessly, redundantly, my mouth trying to seize control back from my brain - you'd think the brain would be in the superior position considering it's dealing with the mouth but you'd be wrong a lot of the time. I was so right and I wanted credit for my magnanimous gesture.
I moved the car. I was under a Boil Watch for a half hour or so but the heat got turned down.
When I left I noted that there was no car in my vacated spot. And that the sun had shifted so that my car would have been in the full sun.
Monday, February 16, 2015
More Skin Matters
So I'm dealing with my sponsor and I get a message from my sister that my mother is in the hospital and is not doing all that well. I'm dealing with that and I get a note from an ancient friend that his 28 year old son has some kind of weird cancer and the prognosis is muddled at best.
I wonder: Do I go home immediately in case my mother dies? Or do I gamble that isn't the case and wait a bit? I don't want to make the long trip home if the situation isn't dire but I don't want to miss a chance to see her one more time if it is. And what about seeing my sponsor again? Or providing some kind of emotional support to a friend?
It's amazing that I just spent some time mulling over the "comfortable in my own skin" concept right as this shit hits the fan. I can say that I'm at peace with the state of my relationships with all of these people. Isn't that a miracle? I can say that I'm at peace with ALL of my relationships. I don't mean to imply that these relationships are all tip-top and in fine mettle or that all of these people are fine with me, only that I approve of my own behavior. I'm confident that I'll make a reasonable decision that will enable me to sleep well at night. I'm not saying that I'll please everyone else but that's the way the cookie crumbles, whatever that means. I can't say I'm heavily in favor of any aphorism that involves the destruction of cookies.
What follows is my half of some emailing back and forth with my ancient friend. I found it amazingly hard trying to convey how powerful a force my spiritual life is in my temporal life to someone who I don't think has a rich spiritual practice of their own, and I also wanted to tread lightly: nothing worse than some hipster dufus preaching from atop a dubious spiritual hilltop of his own construct to someone else who's in pain.
Note Number One:
"I'm not going to open up my email or text messages any more - my mom went to Good Sam last night with a brain bleed leading to pressure up in the skull which is affecting the brain stem. Prognosis not so hot. That on top of my AA sponsor of 25 years who had prostate cancer move into his blood and now into his bone. Prognosis absolutely evil. And now this.
I wonder: Do I go home immediately in case my mother dies? Or do I gamble that isn't the case and wait a bit? I don't want to make the long trip home if the situation isn't dire but I don't want to miss a chance to see her one more time if it is. And what about seeing my sponsor again? Or providing some kind of emotional support to a friend?
It's amazing that I just spent some time mulling over the "comfortable in my own skin" concept right as this shit hits the fan. I can say that I'm at peace with the state of my relationships with all of these people. Isn't that a miracle? I can say that I'm at peace with ALL of my relationships. I don't mean to imply that these relationships are all tip-top and in fine mettle or that all of these people are fine with me, only that I approve of my own behavior. I'm confident that I'll make a reasonable decision that will enable me to sleep well at night. I'm not saying that I'll please everyone else but that's the way the cookie crumbles, whatever that means. I can't say I'm heavily in favor of any aphorism that involves the destruction of cookies.
What follows is my half of some emailing back and forth with my ancient friend. I found it amazingly hard trying to convey how powerful a force my spiritual life is in my temporal life to someone who I don't think has a rich spiritual practice of their own, and I also wanted to tread lightly: nothing worse than some hipster dufus preaching from atop a dubious spiritual hilltop of his own construct to someone else who's in pain.
Note Number One:
"I'm not going to open up my email or text messages any more - my mom went to Good Sam last night with a brain bleed leading to pressure up in the skull which is affecting the brain stem. Prognosis not so hot. That on top of my AA sponsor of 25 years who had prostate cancer move into his blood and now into his bone. Prognosis absolutely evil. And now this.
Words are hard to come by and this to a man who rarely is at a loss for words. . . .
My clumsy attempts at gaining some spiritual perspective on life would have me suggest how important it is to stay in the moment. I have a tendency to project out into the uncontrollable future where I imagine terrible things happening when the fact of the matter is that all I have is right now. All I can do is what's in front of me, take the next step, do the next right thing, the next indicated thing. I don't think I've learned a more powerful truth than One Day At A Time. This helped me stay sober initially but now I find it to be so applicable to life itself - don't forget to be grateful for what I've got, not to be afraid of what I can lose, secure in the knowledge that in this sometimes hard life I will endure and I will see the reason behind everything, both good and bad. I'm not going to escape life's travails and I'm not going to get shut out of life's pleasures.
I hope this sounds OK. It comes from a man who loves you like a brother. Maybe go (I almost said "outside;" Christ, it's almost 80 here today) into a quiet room and sit with your thoughts, listen to your breathing, listen to the small,still voice reassure that, in the end, all will be well.
Note Number Two, in reply:
"Whew. I'm glad this was rec'd in the spirit in which it was sent. Generalized spiritual platitudes can fall flat when someone is in The Shit. One of the hardest things I have to do in The Fellowship is to discuss with someone new how to persevere through the troubles they're inevitably and justifiably going through - the blow-back is "Sure, what do you know ? Everything's going fine for you . . . " etc etc etc. At least in my recovery I've been where the newcomer is so I can speak with some perspective. Having a child get a tough diagnosis? Out of my league. Whatever you're going through is beyond my scope. Hang in there.
One of my little tricks is to keep something I call a Crisis List. I write down whatever and whenever something is bothering me, put in a dash, and then jot down the action I think I should take. About half the time I'm upset because I'm not doing something I should be doing and about half the time I've done everything I can and I just need to wait and see what god's plan is. The latter is MUCH harder - I think as men and as high-achieving, Type A personalities our first impulse is to take an action! Solve something!! when the fact of the matter is we don't have that much power. I once read that: "All action is easier than calm waiting."
Indeed.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Humble Pie Was A Pretty Good Group
Humble: Thinking lowly of oneself; claiming little for oneself; not proud, arrogant, or assuming; modest.
At my men's meeting we read Step 7 this week. This is a very good Step. It's good to read it. I personally think that Steps 6 and 7 get kind of shat upon in our main book - humility and willingness are big, complicated concepts and they get reduced to a couple of paragraphs. I understand this as the founders were struggling with explaining why spirituality is the key to recovery - a pretty big matzo ball for a lot of people to swallow - and then were doing some pretty serious detailing of the inventory process - the biggest of matzo balls to choke down.
I'm losing my train of thought here. The point is that the discussion about humility came down to the realization that many of us started to feel some real contentment when we got our arms around the concept of being humble. "Feeling comfortable in my own skin" was a phrase that came up repeatedly. It seems that we feel comfortable in our own skins when we stop trying to pretend that we're someone else - we're not pieces of shite and we're not Commanders of the Universe. It's somewhere in between. What you see is what you get.
I realize today that I'm comfortable with who I am. I don't do a lot of pretending anymore. I don't care that much about what other people think of me - I still have to behave myself but I don't have to be perfect anymore.
Yeah?
At my men's meeting we read Step 7 this week. This is a very good Step. It's good to read it. I personally think that Steps 6 and 7 get kind of shat upon in our main book - humility and willingness are big, complicated concepts and they get reduced to a couple of paragraphs. I understand this as the founders were struggling with explaining why spirituality is the key to recovery - a pretty big matzo ball for a lot of people to swallow - and then were doing some pretty serious detailing of the inventory process - the biggest of matzo balls to choke down.
I'm losing my train of thought here. The point is that the discussion about humility came down to the realization that many of us started to feel some real contentment when we got our arms around the concept of being humble. "Feeling comfortable in my own skin" was a phrase that came up repeatedly. It seems that we feel comfortable in our own skins when we stop trying to pretend that we're someone else - we're not pieces of shite and we're not Commanders of the Universe. It's somewhere in between. What you see is what you get.
I realize today that I'm comfortable with who I am. I don't do a lot of pretending anymore. I don't care that much about what other people think of me - I still have to behave myself but I don't have to be perfect anymore.
Yeah?
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Euphoric Recall of the Jungle Kind
One time SuperK and I repeated a vacation, escaping the cold of The Old City for a nice, warm beach. We explored the area and had a jolly good time, such a good time that we decided to return the next winter. Alas, it was a little boring so we haven't retraced our steps ever again. The good news is that we're rarely bored - the bad news is that we're frequently stressed.
On the plane home I normally start dreaming about the next adventure but this trip had worn me totally out so I was in no hurry to go anywhere anytime soon. This attitude lasted almost a week - all I can remember now is the good stuff and the bad stuff? The best stories, of course.
On one of my other Over The Edge vacations - to the rain forest with Little Westside Jonny - we had to leave our camp, if by "camp" you mean "rat-infested, tarantula-crawling, armadillo-snorting, not enough food or water outdoor shack compound" very early in the morning. The trip was going to start in the dark and as I tried to drift off the night before on my filthy 2 inch thick mattress lying on a wooden pallet, I could hear the people responsible for extracting us from our misery getting increasingly drunk outside, strumming guitars and hooting and caterwauling in a not-reassuring fashion.
LWSJ and I climbed into our motorized canoe in the pre-dawn darkness and began a high speed dash down a winding creek full of logs and tree branches and watery detritus of all shape and form. It's a great story today but I'll tell you this: sitting in a canoe on the move, wondering whether to keep my eyes closed to avoid getting my corneas lacerated with tree branches or to keep my eyes open so I wouldn't whomp my noggin on the fallen trees that were suspended over the creek was not the kind of decision I wanted to be forced into. One of my favorite stories today and I believe most of it is true, not a result to be sniffed at.
Corneas? In good shape. Noggin? Un-whomped.
On the plane home I normally start dreaming about the next adventure but this trip had worn me totally out so I was in no hurry to go anywhere anytime soon. This attitude lasted almost a week - all I can remember now is the good stuff and the bad stuff? The best stories, of course.
On one of my other Over The Edge vacations - to the rain forest with Little Westside Jonny - we had to leave our camp, if by "camp" you mean "rat-infested, tarantula-crawling, armadillo-snorting, not enough food or water outdoor shack compound" very early in the morning. The trip was going to start in the dark and as I tried to drift off the night before on my filthy 2 inch thick mattress lying on a wooden pallet, I could hear the people responsible for extracting us from our misery getting increasingly drunk outside, strumming guitars and hooting and caterwauling in a not-reassuring fashion.
LWSJ and I climbed into our motorized canoe in the pre-dawn darkness and began a high speed dash down a winding creek full of logs and tree branches and watery detritus of all shape and form. It's a great story today but I'll tell you this: sitting in a canoe on the move, wondering whether to keep my eyes closed to avoid getting my corneas lacerated with tree branches or to keep my eyes open so I wouldn't whomp my noggin on the fallen trees that were suspended over the creek was not the kind of decision I wanted to be forced into. One of my favorite stories today and I believe most of it is true, not a result to be sniffed at.
Corneas? In good shape. Noggin? Un-whomped.
Monday, February 9, 2015
Suicide . . . er, Travel . . . is Painless, It Brings on Many Changes
Change: The process of becoming different.
Back home in lovely, lovely Vacation City, enjoying the comfort of my home and the peace and quiet of the area, I find myself returning again and again to the Why? of travel. Why do I do this? Why do I put myself though this nipple wringer?
To me it's like this: when I'm in my routine, going to meetings, exercising, reading, meeting up with friends and family, I have to admit that it's pretty pleasant. It's not a painful existence that I lead and I enjoy doing these things. I'm not going to stop doing them, either, which would be counterproductive for a drunk who's entire raison d'etre is to feel physical comfort and avoid physical pain, and I'm not slighting emotional, mental, and spiritual pain when I say that.
That being said after a month of these activities I'm more or less the same person I was when the month started. I'm not being stretched by any sense of the word. I go to India and Nepal - which, by the way, is still kicking my ASS even though I've been home for 3 days - and I come back very much changed.
That's the thing about change - it's not always the easiest thing in the world
Back home in lovely, lovely Vacation City, enjoying the comfort of my home and the peace and quiet of the area, I find myself returning again and again to the Why? of travel. Why do I do this? Why do I put myself though this nipple wringer?
To me it's like this: when I'm in my routine, going to meetings, exercising, reading, meeting up with friends and family, I have to admit that it's pretty pleasant. It's not a painful existence that I lead and I enjoy doing these things. I'm not going to stop doing them, either, which would be counterproductive for a drunk who's entire raison d'etre is to feel physical comfort and avoid physical pain, and I'm not slighting emotional, mental, and spiritual pain when I say that.
That being said after a month of these activities I'm more or less the same person I was when the month started. I'm not being stretched by any sense of the word. I go to India and Nepal - which, by the way, is still kicking my ASS even though I've been home for 3 days - and I come back very much changed.
That's the thing about change - it's not always the easiest thing in the world
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Safe and Secure
All of our hotels provided small safes for our valuables. At our last place I found the safe and gave it a test run with no valuables inside - the last thing I wanted to do was lock up all of my best shit and then find out I couldn't get it back out again. Although this would have been par for the course for me I was on thin ice with SuperK already.
Everything went well so I put in our passports and locked the thing up. I did notice, however, that the safe seemed to shift ever so slightly. I gave it a shove and it moved a lot. I reached in and picked the whole goddam thing up - it was surprisingly light - and simply walked out the door with it. The weight got a little tiring at the end of our 6 hour tour but at least I had the peace of mind in knowing that our stuff was safe and secure.
Ever so briefly I thought that I'd mention this to the hotel staff.
Naw.
Everything went well so I put in our passports and locked the thing up. I did notice, however, that the safe seemed to shift ever so slightly. I gave it a shove and it moved a lot. I reached in and picked the whole goddam thing up - it was surprisingly light - and simply walked out the door with it. The weight got a little tiring at the end of our 6 hour tour but at least I had the peace of mind in knowing that our stuff was safe and secure.
Ever so briefly I thought that I'd mention this to the hotel staff.
Naw.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Should Be Very Likely
Should: Will likely (become or do something).
Very: To a great extent or degree; extremely; exceedingly.
On our last night in Kathmandu the tour coordinator stopped by our table at dinner, and we chatted a bit. As he got up to leave I mentioned that our passports didn't get stamped with the requisite visa when we entered the country. It was a typically hectic experience dealing with customs in a foreign country - jet-lagged, a foreign language coming at you fast and furiously, different requirements and procedures every time. I figured I was going to get stung for another $50 visa fee but I knew I could live with that.
The guy paged quickly through our passports looking for the visa stamp, brow furrowed somewhat.
"Is this bad?" I asked.
"It's very bad," he said.
He jumps on his cell and makes a series of calls.
"OK," he states. "I made some calls to friends I have in immigration and at the airport, and we should be good tomorrow."
There's that fucking word: should. I hate that word, especially when it's combined with very.
I should point out that when we entered Nepal we were given a receipt for the visa charges and a couple of other pieces of paper, customs forms and crap like that. I had lost those promptly - I didn't know when, either, unsure whether one of our guides had kept them or the hotel staff picked them up or I just lost them, the latter the most likely eventuality given my history of losing stuff. We realized how wonderful it would have been to have some more supporting documentation at this point, maybe even a slip with the visa stamp. To say that my existence on this planet was not seen as favorable by my wife would be a huge overstatement.
Our coordinator moves up our pick-up time from 11 to 9 the next morning to give us time to jump through some hoops. At 9 he calls and tells us it'll be 9:30 as the immigration office doesn't open until 10, then shows up at 9:45. This is all par for the course. We head off around 10 which, as I have pointed out previously, puts us in the maw of rush hour. It seems to be the most popular time to leave - we always leave then.
We arrive at the immigration office where our dude talks to a kid at a window, who points out a woman at a desk with a twist of his head, after a long stream of furious dialogue and much shaking of a large sheaf of papers we had given our dude - flight tickets, tour itineraries, hotel vouchers - ostensibly to prove we hadn't slipped into the country illegally over the Himalayas, pulling our suitcases on wheels, and then were trying to leave the country via the international airport in the country's capital during rush hour. More of the same with this woman, who directs us upstairs where we talk for a while with another woman who inevitably points next door to a couple of guys. This lady had her own private office - indicating a more influential buck-passer, we hoped - but she stood the whole time, in a somewhat confrontational pose. Our guide goes at it with the two guys and then speeds off back downstairs as we struggle to keep up.
"OK," he says. "We have it sorted out - we just need to make the application online. Then when we get to the airport it should be OK."
He points out the one automated visa application terminal - a long line of people queued up, mostly grungy backpacker kids - then gets on his phone and takes off, still holding our passports. SuperK and I look at each other confusedly - she stays put and I leave in hot pursuit, unwilling to let our one remaining piece of important documentation out of my sight. Outside, in a typically chaotic neighborhood of dirt roads and careening cars surrounding the nice, new immigration building, I find him in the door of a small business talking to the proprietor.
"This guy is very fast," he tells me, turning to go back into the Kafkaesque immigration building, one of the few places in the world that I had hoped never to enter ever again. "But it's very expensive."
"What's expensive?" I ask, increasingly concerned that these psychopaths weren't going to let me out of their country.
"500 rupees," he says. "Apiece."
$10.
"Yeah, let's do this," I say.
At this time I fumble in the little man purse that I've carried absolutely everywhere in Nepal for a solid week and the sheaf of papers I had been given at the airport fall out of a kind of hidden outer pocket.
"SuperK," I say, handing the papers to her without comment and IMMEDIATELY moving back out of punching range. The woman lifts weights. She looks at the papers, looks up at me - holding the glance an uncomfortable extra beat or two, admirably saying nothing - then talks to our guide.
"OK," he says. "We can go to the airport now."
I toss the equivalent of a buck to the guy who started to work on our very fast, very expensive application, and we pile into the car and head to the airport. When we arrive a dude in a tie jabbers with our facilitator dude and we're handed off. The airport guy takes us quickly and efficiently through what seemed like 719 different offices, line, queues, and obligations. I'm throwing money at everyone at this point. I do not see how it would have been possible to do this without help. It did not seem doable.
So we get through the maze. Our payoff was a 2 hour flight with a 7 hour lay-over; a 16 hour flight in a plane seat the size of a shoe-box, surrounded by ill, screaming children; then a 7 hour flight to Vacation City Near; finishing up with an hour bus ride home.
I slept good.
Very: To a great extent or degree; extremely; exceedingly.
On our last night in Kathmandu the tour coordinator stopped by our table at dinner, and we chatted a bit. As he got up to leave I mentioned that our passports didn't get stamped with the requisite visa when we entered the country. It was a typically hectic experience dealing with customs in a foreign country - jet-lagged, a foreign language coming at you fast and furiously, different requirements and procedures every time. I figured I was going to get stung for another $50 visa fee but I knew I could live with that.
The guy paged quickly through our passports looking for the visa stamp, brow furrowed somewhat.
"Is this bad?" I asked.
"It's very bad," he said.
He jumps on his cell and makes a series of calls.
"OK," he states. "I made some calls to friends I have in immigration and at the airport, and we should be good tomorrow."
There's that fucking word: should. I hate that word, especially when it's combined with very.
I should point out that when we entered Nepal we were given a receipt for the visa charges and a couple of other pieces of paper, customs forms and crap like that. I had lost those promptly - I didn't know when, either, unsure whether one of our guides had kept them or the hotel staff picked them up or I just lost them, the latter the most likely eventuality given my history of losing stuff. We realized how wonderful it would have been to have some more supporting documentation at this point, maybe even a slip with the visa stamp. To say that my existence on this planet was not seen as favorable by my wife would be a huge overstatement.
Our coordinator moves up our pick-up time from 11 to 9 the next morning to give us time to jump through some hoops. At 9 he calls and tells us it'll be 9:30 as the immigration office doesn't open until 10, then shows up at 9:45. This is all par for the course. We head off around 10 which, as I have pointed out previously, puts us in the maw of rush hour. It seems to be the most popular time to leave - we always leave then.
We arrive at the immigration office where our dude talks to a kid at a window, who points out a woman at a desk with a twist of his head, after a long stream of furious dialogue and much shaking of a large sheaf of papers we had given our dude - flight tickets, tour itineraries, hotel vouchers - ostensibly to prove we hadn't slipped into the country illegally over the Himalayas, pulling our suitcases on wheels, and then were trying to leave the country via the international airport in the country's capital during rush hour. More of the same with this woman, who directs us upstairs where we talk for a while with another woman who inevitably points next door to a couple of guys. This lady had her own private office - indicating a more influential buck-passer, we hoped - but she stood the whole time, in a somewhat confrontational pose. Our guide goes at it with the two guys and then speeds off back downstairs as we struggle to keep up.
"OK," he says. "We have it sorted out - we just need to make the application online. Then when we get to the airport it should be OK."
He points out the one automated visa application terminal - a long line of people queued up, mostly grungy backpacker kids - then gets on his phone and takes off, still holding our passports. SuperK and I look at each other confusedly - she stays put and I leave in hot pursuit, unwilling to let our one remaining piece of important documentation out of my sight. Outside, in a typically chaotic neighborhood of dirt roads and careening cars surrounding the nice, new immigration building, I find him in the door of a small business talking to the proprietor.
"This guy is very fast," he tells me, turning to go back into the Kafkaesque immigration building, one of the few places in the world that I had hoped never to enter ever again. "But it's very expensive."
"What's expensive?" I ask, increasingly concerned that these psychopaths weren't going to let me out of their country.
"500 rupees," he says. "Apiece."
$10.
"Yeah, let's do this," I say.
At this time I fumble in the little man purse that I've carried absolutely everywhere in Nepal for a solid week and the sheaf of papers I had been given at the airport fall out of a kind of hidden outer pocket.
"SuperK," I say, handing the papers to her without comment and IMMEDIATELY moving back out of punching range. The woman lifts weights. She looks at the papers, looks up at me - holding the glance an uncomfortable extra beat or two, admirably saying nothing - then talks to our guide.
"OK," he says. "We can go to the airport now."
I toss the equivalent of a buck to the guy who started to work on our very fast, very expensive application, and we pile into the car and head to the airport. When we arrive a dude in a tie jabbers with our facilitator dude and we're handed off. The airport guy takes us quickly and efficiently through what seemed like 719 different offices, line, queues, and obligations. I'm throwing money at everyone at this point. I do not see how it would have been possible to do this without help. It did not seem doable.
So we get through the maze. Our payoff was a 2 hour flight with a 7 hour lay-over; a 16 hour flight in a plane seat the size of a shoe-box, surrounded by ill, screaming children; then a 7 hour flight to Vacation City Near; finishing up with an hour bus ride home.
I slept good.
Monday, February 2, 2015
The New and Improved Seaweed
Last day of an exhilarating, frustrating, marvelous, intense, wonder of a trip.
I'm looking forward to going home despite the 36 hour transit time. I'm looking forward to a little routine, a little control, a little familiarity.
That being said I know that the last 30 days have caused me - forced me - to change a lot. I can look at any random 30 day period in Vacation City, filled with pleasant, comfortable, enjoyable routine - I really do enjoy my life a great deal - and understand that I'm usually going to come out the back end more or less the same person I was when the month started. This is not the case here - there have rarely been days that looked anything like one that came before. They have almost always been totally new.
36 hours transit time. Yikes.
I'm looking forward to going home despite the 36 hour transit time. I'm looking forward to a little routine, a little control, a little familiarity.
That being said I know that the last 30 days have caused me - forced me - to change a lot. I can look at any random 30 day period in Vacation City, filled with pleasant, comfortable, enjoyable routine - I really do enjoy my life a great deal - and understand that I'm usually going to come out the back end more or less the same person I was when the month started. This is not the case here - there have rarely been days that looked anything like one that came before. They have almost always been totally new.
36 hours transit time. Yikes.
Step Two? Step Two!
The soap here in Kathmandu smells like airplane glue. I shit you not. The first night I started to lather up and I thought that the maid had sprayed some industrial cleaner on the bars. Still standing under the water I tossed them in the garbage and fumbled with my wet fingers to tear the paper off of a new piece. It smelled like airplane glue. I lathered, rinsed, and exited the shower.
SuperK and I had a meeting last night where we read Step 2. When we were traveling early in our sobriety to places where we didn't have access to meetings we would do this more frequently than we do now. Shame on us, I guess, but it is understandable - it takes a little more chaos for our asses to fall off. Anyway, we had a good meeting and like most good meetings I heard a few things that surprised me, a few things that I wouldn't have suspected coming out of a meeting on Step 2. This is why we go to meetings. It isn't a formulaic thing. It comes at you at strange angles in unpredictable times.
She brought up the excellent, excellent point that she could reconstruct every single day of our 30 day trip in exact detail, including the food we ate at every meal. One of the reasons that I like new experiences, challenging ones especially, is that it really makes you get into the minute. At home I have trouble remembering the day before yesterday let alone what I ate 3 weeks ago but I had to admit - I was right there with her. I could recite the itinerary myself.
The second excellent, excellent point was that we have found ourselves in a situation for which we have no frame of reference - it is that new. So like good drunks we try to jam the experience into the template of an experience for which we have some frame of reference. This is not The States or Europe or South America, and we're going to suffer the more we try to make it understandable. We can prepare but we can't predict.
I, on the other hand, had nothing particularly interesting to say.
SuperK and I had a meeting last night where we read Step 2. When we were traveling early in our sobriety to places where we didn't have access to meetings we would do this more frequently than we do now. Shame on us, I guess, but it is understandable - it takes a little more chaos for our asses to fall off. Anyway, we had a good meeting and like most good meetings I heard a few things that surprised me, a few things that I wouldn't have suspected coming out of a meeting on Step 2. This is why we go to meetings. It isn't a formulaic thing. It comes at you at strange angles in unpredictable times.
She brought up the excellent, excellent point that she could reconstruct every single day of our 30 day trip in exact detail, including the food we ate at every meal. One of the reasons that I like new experiences, challenging ones especially, is that it really makes you get into the minute. At home I have trouble remembering the day before yesterday let alone what I ate 3 weeks ago but I had to admit - I was right there with her. I could recite the itinerary myself.
The second excellent, excellent point was that we have found ourselves in a situation for which we have no frame of reference - it is that new. So like good drunks we try to jam the experience into the template of an experience for which we have some frame of reference. This is not The States or Europe or South America, and we're going to suffer the more we try to make it understandable. We can prepare but we can't predict.
I, on the other hand, had nothing particularly interesting to say.
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