After nearly thirty years of being sober and clean, I have a seen a lot of sad soul sick folks in 12th step meetings. But, the one that tore my ailing heart to threads was a young pretty blonde girl (Quogue, NY, Thursday night meeting) who self-harmed – cut her own flesh. Listening to this video I read a comment from another one living in an identical hell on Earth I have no comprehension. I feel the same way about what happens to Gaza, Syria, Iraq, Cairo, downtown Detroit, and so forth. I freely admit I friggin’ do not get it.
How the f*ck can we do such horrors to ourselves, or each other, or Pachamama? What darkness befalls one’s spirit? Life is so gorgeous if we just see (read lower our shields and shades), not just look. And, when the shit happens – no caring human escapes the caca – the holy fix we simply need to do is confide in a trusted friend to ease the pain – be they human, canine, avian, living angel, or God.
The entire 12th step program is based on free thinking surrender and the mysterious healing power of the fellowship. When I write about recovery, I add how grateful I am for grace entering my life. Why me? I dunno. I was heady blessed from an impending doom of a self-imposed purgatory inside a designer lifestyle. The multi-dimensional life preserver arrived without pity or enabling.
Most people come into the rooms of AA bankrupt at every shady corner of their lives. I was dragged to meetings in Laguna Beach, California, making a monthly income most folks make in a half a decade creatively doing something i thought I loved. My paper mache story was I was burned out from a worldwide fixing campaign. I felt I had ridden my locked-up life into a space with no return.
Today, I continue to carry a tattered petard where the manifesto reads love rules and compassion is the meta wrench in our rusty tool box. I went from wanting a perfect soul to realizing I am from somewhere else, and then accepting such a gritty premise by wearing my sobriety lightly, not like a doomsday cape tied in a triple knot around my neck. There is no halo above my brain but distant stars do glisten in my green eyes if you look closely . . .
I never shed my dreams for world peace but i said adios to those who swallowed the pill life sucks to exist in a bubble of poor me hobbled to blame and shame indulgence. What I use to be, is no longer.
I swear this is true.
Once you hear the inner truth rattle with no replays and too many fast forwards the doctored movie script is riddled with moments of joy. From these delightful calls come passionate insight from afar and captivated faith appears to carry on during the 59th minute.
In the gentleness of some enchanting jungle mornings when defenses have not risen, I shamelessly let the tears flow for you, Earth, and what was. Looking out across the rainforest and the Pacific something weird happens during these purgings. I am struck by happy thunderbolts of what could be. Luckily, I possess no showboat blood stains from an invisible stigmata.
Today, my persona is brimming with concern in a different vain. It is turning out writing a novel is not a kayak group paddle up the misty Hudson, it is broad reach across the Rhode Island sound during falling seas. Not funny, I already knew the fictional painting I would be writing with words is unbounded. Like poignant piano playing, the secrets give up themselves one note a time. My hope is the final lyrics have import. I leave the music for the readership to hear on their own.
Living alone with monkeys, toucans, and swinging bunches of bananas is to be relied on. Social media is coming home to pickup the mail and check on the seedlings. A few of you have no idea how important you are.