When I go to the library I usually follow the same path: drop books in return slot, peruse new releases, mosey through the first floor art gallery, meander upstairs to the non-fiction section to see which biographies catch my eye.
The library is the perfect place for meandering and moseying. Its atmosphere is an invitation to slow down. Every room is quiet; even the smells - aging books, wooden tables and chairs polished by the arms, legs and derrieres of countless patrons - are quiet, inviting leisurely rumination. Take your time, is the library's message. Sit down and read a magazine or newspaper, choose a few books, CDs, DVDs or even pieces of art to take home with you for a few days or weeks. Enjoy yourself, the library encourages - in a soft voice, of course.
On my most recent library visit I took myself off my usual path and found some surprises. I was looking for books about Buddhism, but after I looked up a few titles and reference numbers, I wandered up and down each aisle in non-fiction, wondering what surprises might await.
Surprises abounded. Shelves of poetry, political science, gay and lesbian literature, cookbooks, do-it-yourself books. I was delighted, and a little chagrined by how long it had taken me, to see the dizzying variety of books one small-town library had to offer.
I found the books I was looking for, plus a bonus, a book on Buddhism by Natalie Goldberg, author of "Writing Down the Bones," the book that cracks open my writing mind and unleashes my originality every time I pick it up.
In keeping with my change of library routine, I exited Non-Fiction at the opposite end I usually do, and was rewarded with another surprise. On a shelf of recommended books sat a small volume with a photo of a smiling dog on the cover. It's title? "Doggerel." A book of poems written about dogs! I added it to my armload, feeling like a child who'd just found a quarter outside the door of a candy store.
I've been reading one dog poem aloud each night to my canine housemates; partly because I enjoy the sheer whimsy of reading dog poetry to dogs, partly because I like reading poetry out loud. It's like singing without the worry of staying in tune.
This is a lesson I want to remember. Old, familiar paths are comfortable, but there are surprises waiting for those who venture a step away from the routine, even in the whisper quiet of the local library.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
A Rare "Medium"
My typical Friday night modus operandi is to get home from work as quickly as possible, shuck off my work clothes, change into jeans and a sweatshirt and do some serious vegging. The pinnacle of the evening is at 9 p.m., when I sink onto the sofa with an enormous bowl of popcorn and watch "Medium."
For you non-watchers, the show is based on the life of true-life psychic and crime solver Allison DuBois. I am not a crime show fan, but this show blends a (usually gory/creepy) crime Allison must solve with her home life, where she is married and the mom of three daughters. Her husband is a patient, good-humored honey of a man, and her daughters are written as real girls, not stereotypical TV kids.
Last night was the season finale. It was unusual in that most of the action took place while Allison slept. I won't regale you with the whole plot, just the part that hit home with me. Allison's oldest daughter, Ariel, was thrilled to receive an acceptance letter from Dartmouth College - a long way away from Arizona, where the DuBois family lives. Allison panicked, and immediately began trying to plot ways to keep Ariel from leaving.
Joe refused to scheme along. "It's her life. It's her future," he reminded his distraught wife.
That night Allison dreamed that she died, and that she appeared to Ariel, enlisting her to serve as the family caretaker under her mother's guidance. She also pressed Ariel into taking Allison's job as a crime solver for the district attorney's office.
As you can imagine, things didn't go well. Ariel struggled to balance living her mother's life with living her own life as a young adult. She ended up foregoing Dartmouth to live at home and attend community college.
At last Ariel, torn between her desire to please her mother and her longing to lead the simple life of a college co-ed, erupts. Go away, she tells her mother. "Go to your grave, and I'll visit you on Mother's Day and Christmas." She pulls a bottle of liquor out of her nightstand drawer and downs several shots, relaxing as the alcohol dims her awareness of her mother's smothering spirit.
It ends well, of course. Allison awakens, thrilled to be among the living, to have another chance. To be able to look her oldest daughter in the eye and encourage her to claim her bright new future. They both laugh and cry, promising to keep in touch with phone calls, texts and e-mails.
It's so hard to let go of your children. When they're little time seems to pass so slowly, weighed down as it is with the constant attentiveness and sheer physical labor that raising small children demands. But when you've finally done it, raised self-sufficient young adults ready to fly the nest, it all seems to have passed in the time it takes to sing a lullaby.
I understand Allison's desire to hold on to her daughter. With one child still under my roof and the other two living only a few minutes' drive away, I still miss them sometimes. I miss being central in their lives. It was exhausting and sometimes exasperating, but sometimes I'd give anything to do it all again. I just have to settle for being grateful for the opportunity to have done it at all.
For you non-watchers, the show is based on the life of true-life psychic and crime solver Allison DuBois. I am not a crime show fan, but this show blends a (usually gory/creepy) crime Allison must solve with her home life, where she is married and the mom of three daughters. Her husband is a patient, good-humored honey of a man, and her daughters are written as real girls, not stereotypical TV kids.
Last night was the season finale. It was unusual in that most of the action took place while Allison slept. I won't regale you with the whole plot, just the part that hit home with me. Allison's oldest daughter, Ariel, was thrilled to receive an acceptance letter from Dartmouth College - a long way away from Arizona, where the DuBois family lives. Allison panicked, and immediately began trying to plot ways to keep Ariel from leaving.
Joe refused to scheme along. "It's her life. It's her future," he reminded his distraught wife.
That night Allison dreamed that she died, and that she appeared to Ariel, enlisting her to serve as the family caretaker under her mother's guidance. She also pressed Ariel into taking Allison's job as a crime solver for the district attorney's office.
As you can imagine, things didn't go well. Ariel struggled to balance living her mother's life with living her own life as a young adult. She ended up foregoing Dartmouth to live at home and attend community college.
At last Ariel, torn between her desire to please her mother and her longing to lead the simple life of a college co-ed, erupts. Go away, she tells her mother. "Go to your grave, and I'll visit you on Mother's Day and Christmas." She pulls a bottle of liquor out of her nightstand drawer and downs several shots, relaxing as the alcohol dims her awareness of her mother's smothering spirit.
It ends well, of course. Allison awakens, thrilled to be among the living, to have another chance. To be able to look her oldest daughter in the eye and encourage her to claim her bright new future. They both laugh and cry, promising to keep in touch with phone calls, texts and e-mails.
It's so hard to let go of your children. When they're little time seems to pass so slowly, weighed down as it is with the constant attentiveness and sheer physical labor that raising small children demands. But when you've finally done it, raised self-sufficient young adults ready to fly the nest, it all seems to have passed in the time it takes to sing a lullaby.
I understand Allison's desire to hold on to her daughter. With one child still under my roof and the other two living only a few minutes' drive away, I still miss them sometimes. I miss being central in their lives. It was exhausting and sometimes exasperating, but sometimes I'd give anything to do it all again. I just have to settle for being grateful for the opportunity to have done it at all.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
HALT
I've had 12 hours' sleep, four cups of coffee and two glasses of Coke. I am awake.
When I got home last night I was exhausted. I laid down for what I told myself would be 15 minutes. I woke up long enough to take two phone calls, change out of my wrinkled beyond repair work clothes, pull on pajamas, take the dogs out (yes, in that order) and wash my face. Next thing I knew it was 6 a.m. Being this awake is a little disorienting. It reminds me that too much of the time I'm operating on way too little sleep.
There are a lot of helpful little sayings in recovery. When you first hear them they sound, depending on your state of mind, like gems of wisdom or trite, dumb-ass sound bites. After you've been sober awhile they actually make a lot of sense.
Take HALT, for example. As in don't let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired. Sounds kind of like something Cookie Monster would sing on "Sesame Street," but I can tell you that remaining in any one of those states for too long a time can lead an alcoholic - this one, anyway - dangerously close to the precipice of a relapse.
I managed to hit three out of four this week: I was HLT. As is often true with me, one of them led to another and to the next.
It began with Tired. Tired is not a good state for me. When I'm overtired I am either mopey and snappish or hyper and obnoxious. Every night this week events seemed to conspire against my getting a decent night's sleep. Sick dog. Son stopping by to visit. Going to Mindy's to watch "Lost." Yes, I know, only sick dog was truly an unavoidable circumstance. I stayed up to visit with Daniel, but I could have gone to bed a little earlier. I make no excuses for "Lost." The show ends next week and losing sleep is a price I'm willing to pay to be a passenger on this wacky six-year ride.
At any rate, Tired led to Hungry, as I overslept every single work morning and had no time for breakfast, which made me ravenously hungry at lunch, then overstuffed and logy for the rest of the day. Also, Tired wanted crap food, and I was powerless to resist. I ate like a 6-year-old: sloppy joes, chips, pizza, cookies. This, of course, made me feel more Tired.
Lonely wrapped me in its chilly grip on May 11. It would have been Ron's and my 25th anniversary. This was not a social loneliness; I had lunch that day with my friend Margi, I went to Mindy's house that night. This was that peculiar mix that wells up on occasions when I most acutely feel Ron's absence. I miss the man I fell in love with, the man I danced with to "Sea of Love" at our wedding reception. I am sad and angry that it all became such a mess, I am relieved that the tortured addict he became is now at peace. Mostly, though, I miss him.
By Friday, HLT peaked, and I crashed. I am grateful that the worst fallout of the week was that I had to wear grubby clothes because I was too tired to do the laundry. HALT, or any combination thereof, makes me feel fragile and edgy, which makes me long for an escape. That impulse to escape used to lead me straight to the bottle, and although I've sober more than half my life, I know that I could be led there again if I don't maintain a solid program of recovery.
So I missed my comfortable Friday night routine of eating a giant bowl of popcorn and watching "Medium." But I put a halt to HLT.
When I got home last night I was exhausted. I laid down for what I told myself would be 15 minutes. I woke up long enough to take two phone calls, change out of my wrinkled beyond repair work clothes, pull on pajamas, take the dogs out (yes, in that order) and wash my face. Next thing I knew it was 6 a.m. Being this awake is a little disorienting. It reminds me that too much of the time I'm operating on way too little sleep.
There are a lot of helpful little sayings in recovery. When you first hear them they sound, depending on your state of mind, like gems of wisdom or trite, dumb-ass sound bites. After you've been sober awhile they actually make a lot of sense.
Take HALT, for example. As in don't let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired. Sounds kind of like something Cookie Monster would sing on "Sesame Street," but I can tell you that remaining in any one of those states for too long a time can lead an alcoholic - this one, anyway - dangerously close to the precipice of a relapse.
I managed to hit three out of four this week: I was HLT. As is often true with me, one of them led to another and to the next.
It began with Tired. Tired is not a good state for me. When I'm overtired I am either mopey and snappish or hyper and obnoxious. Every night this week events seemed to conspire against my getting a decent night's sleep. Sick dog. Son stopping by to visit. Going to Mindy's to watch "Lost." Yes, I know, only sick dog was truly an unavoidable circumstance. I stayed up to visit with Daniel, but I could have gone to bed a little earlier. I make no excuses for "Lost." The show ends next week and losing sleep is a price I'm willing to pay to be a passenger on this wacky six-year ride.
At any rate, Tired led to Hungry, as I overslept every single work morning and had no time for breakfast, which made me ravenously hungry at lunch, then overstuffed and logy for the rest of the day. Also, Tired wanted crap food, and I was powerless to resist. I ate like a 6-year-old: sloppy joes, chips, pizza, cookies. This, of course, made me feel more Tired.
Lonely wrapped me in its chilly grip on May 11. It would have been Ron's and my 25th anniversary. This was not a social loneliness; I had lunch that day with my friend Margi, I went to Mindy's house that night. This was that peculiar mix that wells up on occasions when I most acutely feel Ron's absence. I miss the man I fell in love with, the man I danced with to "Sea of Love" at our wedding reception. I am sad and angry that it all became such a mess, I am relieved that the tortured addict he became is now at peace. Mostly, though, I miss him.
By Friday, HLT peaked, and I crashed. I am grateful that the worst fallout of the week was that I had to wear grubby clothes because I was too tired to do the laundry. HALT, or any combination thereof, makes me feel fragile and edgy, which makes me long for an escape. That impulse to escape used to lead me straight to the bottle, and although I've sober more than half my life, I know that I could be led there again if I don't maintain a solid program of recovery.
So I missed my comfortable Friday night routine of eating a giant bowl of popcorn and watching "Medium." But I put a halt to HLT.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Ow
You know those annoying people who feel the need to go into exhaustive detail about every minor injury they sustain? They talk about how they got hurt, where they were when they got hurt and, worst of all, they offer to show you every cut and bruise?
I'm one of those people.
I was walking Indy earlier this week and I fell down. That's the abbreviated version. The longer explanation starts two days prior, when I didn't walk him, and the day after that, when I didn't walk him again. Two days on the human calendar; 6,594 days in dog time.
By the time we finally did go for a walk, Indy was on fire. He ignored my commands to walk, he yanked me hither and yon, desperate to make up for those sniff-and-pee deprived days.
Then he spotted a big, mellow galoot of a dog being walked on the other side of the street and felt the urge to hurl shrieking oaths at him. Embarassed, I pulled Indy close and hustled him away. In mid-hustle I tripped over Indy's feet and crashed to the pavement, landing on all fours.
The good news is, I did not unleash my formidable temper on my hapless pooch. I got up slowly, feeling as teary and sore as a 6-year-old after a playground spill, and gave Indy a stern talking to.
He stared up at me with those round, earnest brown eyes and a big doggy grin, waiting patiently for Mom to stop yammering so we could resume our tour of power poles and fire hydrants.
The bad news is, damn I hurt! My knees were scraped and bruised and I ached in peculiar spots: two fingers on one hand, the palm of my other hand, one side of my neck and one spot on my lower back.
And yes, yes I did tell everyone I encountered, from my daughter when I got home to every hapless coworker I saw the next day. No, I didn't show anyone my poor, banged up knees - but only because I hadn't shaved my legs.
What is this compulsion some of us have to dwell on what hurts? Misery dwelling was the theme of my drinking career, topped with a generous helping of self-pity.
Why, oh why were my parents so dysfunctional and weird? If only I'd had better parents I wouldn't be such a mess. Nothing for it but to get good and wasted.
There's a saying in recovery: Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink.
Recovery gave me the freedom to stop playing the victim, to accept responsibility for my lot in life and to choose what I wanted. This didn't happen with the touch of the recovery fairy's wand. It took years of working my program, getting honest and accepting my share of the blame for whatever went awry in my life.
Being a victim is comfortable. The only action required is whining and lifting that bottle. But being the victim leaves you at the mercy of outside forces, and those forces aren't necessarily benevolent.
To sum it up with another recovery truism, I got sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Being responsible is hard work. When I screw up I have to own up to it and live with the consequences. How much easier it would be sometimes to point the finger and whine, "Well what about what you did?"
But I don't want to be a victim anymore. I want to hold my life in my own two hands, and I want to be a woman others can lean on for support, the way I've leaned on my comrades in sobriety. I'll take my lumps and learn from them rather than drink over them.
But the next time I fall down you'll probably hear all about it. As I like to say, I'm a work in progress - and a bruised one at that.
I'm one of those people.
I was walking Indy earlier this week and I fell down. That's the abbreviated version. The longer explanation starts two days prior, when I didn't walk him, and the day after that, when I didn't walk him again. Two days on the human calendar; 6,594 days in dog time.
By the time we finally did go for a walk, Indy was on fire. He ignored my commands to walk, he yanked me hither and yon, desperate to make up for those sniff-and-pee deprived days.
Then he spotted a big, mellow galoot of a dog being walked on the other side of the street and felt the urge to hurl shrieking oaths at him. Embarassed, I pulled Indy close and hustled him away. In mid-hustle I tripped over Indy's feet and crashed to the pavement, landing on all fours.
The good news is, I did not unleash my formidable temper on my hapless pooch. I got up slowly, feeling as teary and sore as a 6-year-old after a playground spill, and gave Indy a stern talking to.
He stared up at me with those round, earnest brown eyes and a big doggy grin, waiting patiently for Mom to stop yammering so we could resume our tour of power poles and fire hydrants.
The bad news is, damn I hurt! My knees were scraped and bruised and I ached in peculiar spots: two fingers on one hand, the palm of my other hand, one side of my neck and one spot on my lower back.
And yes, yes I did tell everyone I encountered, from my daughter when I got home to every hapless coworker I saw the next day. No, I didn't show anyone my poor, banged up knees - but only because I hadn't shaved my legs.
What is this compulsion some of us have to dwell on what hurts? Misery dwelling was the theme of my drinking career, topped with a generous helping of self-pity.
Why, oh why were my parents so dysfunctional and weird? If only I'd had better parents I wouldn't be such a mess. Nothing for it but to get good and wasted.
There's a saying in recovery: Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink.
Recovery gave me the freedom to stop playing the victim, to accept responsibility for my lot in life and to choose what I wanted. This didn't happen with the touch of the recovery fairy's wand. It took years of working my program, getting honest and accepting my share of the blame for whatever went awry in my life.
Being a victim is comfortable. The only action required is whining and lifting that bottle. But being the victim leaves you at the mercy of outside forces, and those forces aren't necessarily benevolent.
To sum it up with another recovery truism, I got sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Being responsible is hard work. When I screw up I have to own up to it and live with the consequences. How much easier it would be sometimes to point the finger and whine, "Well what about what you did?"
But I don't want to be a victim anymore. I want to hold my life in my own two hands, and I want to be a woman others can lean on for support, the way I've leaned on my comrades in sobriety. I'll take my lumps and learn from them rather than drink over them.
But the next time I fall down you'll probably hear all about it. As I like to say, I'm a work in progress - and a bruised one at that.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Forever blowing bubbles
If I were a therapist, every new client of mine would leave my office with a bottle of bubble blowing solution. Few things in life are as simple and satisfying as creating shimmery, iridescent, delicate globes out of soap and breath.
For my birthday last month I received two giant bottles of bubbles, one from each of my daughters. I keep them on a shelf by the back door so that when I am so inclined, which is often, I can step outside and blow me some bubbles. My signature bubbles are the giant, oval ones, the ones so heavy that they can barely stay afloat. I love to watch them bob lazily to earth, exploding in a gooey splash on the sidewalk. When I release a riotous cloud of smaller bubbles I watch them sail toward the trees and imagine them converging in a cloud around the head of an unsuspecting neighbor: "What the ...?"
Today was a good day for bubbles. I needed the spirit lift they provided. Four of the people I love most in this world are struggling under unreasonably heavy burdens, and I HATE it. I want to rush to the rescue, make everything all better. Partly because I love them and partly, selfishly, because I hate to see people I love hurting; it makes me hurt.
A hard but valuable lesson I learned as the wife of a practicing alcoholic is that you cannot make someone want to be well. And if you try to, you will suffer for your efforts. I also learned I must respect people enough to let them find their own way out of a tough situation. My "wisdom" isn't always needed, or wanted. I've also learned that even if someone I love is pain, it's ok for me to not be. I can laugh, read a book, take a nap. Not taking care of me doesn't fix a thing, and can become a miserable form of self-indulgence.
Not every one of those lessons applies to my relationships with each of the people I mentioned. But I need to keep them front and center in my mind when I'm tempted to wallow in secondhand unhappiness.
I can love them, listen to them, pray for them, care for them, do what I can to lighten their moods. But I can't carry their burdens or solve their problems. It took me 20 years to learn that it's all right for me to be all right when life isn't perfect for everyone I care about. It's ok to be grateful for my own turmoil free (today) life. It's ok to step outside and blow some bubbles.
For my birthday last month I received two giant bottles of bubbles, one from each of my daughters. I keep them on a shelf by the back door so that when I am so inclined, which is often, I can step outside and blow me some bubbles. My signature bubbles are the giant, oval ones, the ones so heavy that they can barely stay afloat. I love to watch them bob lazily to earth, exploding in a gooey splash on the sidewalk. When I release a riotous cloud of smaller bubbles I watch them sail toward the trees and imagine them converging in a cloud around the head of an unsuspecting neighbor: "What the ...?"
Today was a good day for bubbles. I needed the spirit lift they provided. Four of the people I love most in this world are struggling under unreasonably heavy burdens, and I HATE it. I want to rush to the rescue, make everything all better. Partly because I love them and partly, selfishly, because I hate to see people I love hurting; it makes me hurt.
A hard but valuable lesson I learned as the wife of a practicing alcoholic is that you cannot make someone want to be well. And if you try to, you will suffer for your efforts. I also learned I must respect people enough to let them find their own way out of a tough situation. My "wisdom" isn't always needed, or wanted. I've also learned that even if someone I love is pain, it's ok for me to not be. I can laugh, read a book, take a nap. Not taking care of me doesn't fix a thing, and can become a miserable form of self-indulgence.
Not every one of those lessons applies to my relationships with each of the people I mentioned. But I need to keep them front and center in my mind when I'm tempted to wallow in secondhand unhappiness.
I can love them, listen to them, pray for them, care for them, do what I can to lighten their moods. But I can't carry their burdens or solve their problems. It took me 20 years to learn that it's all right for me to be all right when life isn't perfect for everyone I care about. It's ok to be grateful for my own turmoil free (today) life. It's ok to step outside and blow some bubbles.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)