Although my life has had its share of adventures, I have lived in the same community for most of my 46 years.  It’s a mixed bag of blessings and burdens – sometimes a strange time warp descends over every moment.  Here’s where I got my first kiss.  That’s where I used to catch the school bus. Here’s the path I used to walk my kids to baseball practice in the park. My friend’s dad yelled at me here when I was 8, accusing me (wrongly) of bullying.  I puked by that picnic shelter in junior high after drinking home-made chokecherry wine at a friend’s sleepover. There’s another friend’s house – we used to suntan on the roof of her garage (before we got boobs. After that her mom made us stay in the back yard). Oh and right here a handful of teal pompoms blew off my dad’s car while we were driving to the church for my wedding.

I took up running a few years ago. While exercise clears the mind, it requires effort to not be distracted by the memories all around and the emotions associated with them. It’s an effort to relax, so to speak.

Whether I am writing a song, thinking about a blog post, or sorting out a problem in my head my thought process works the same way. All of the ideas, images, feeling, insights, and such mix together; swirling around in my mind like a cross between a tornado and a cauldron of soup. It all has to mix together for a long time (as verified by the sometimes lengthy gaps between my blog posts). Running can speed up the process if I allow myself to focus on the simmering tornado pot. So can long a car ride (alone), kayaking, and sitting on a beach.

After an indeterminate amount of time, something miraculous happens. The centrifuge slows down and out of the bottom of this funneling mess emerges a crystal clear drop of truth.


And there it is – the answer, the understanding I’ve been working on and waiting for is suddenly there. Perfect and real.  A thought fully formed that seems to appear out of nowhere but which in truth has been in production for quite some time.

What’s been bubbling in the “pot of recovery” lately is the realization that so much of what morphed into alcohol addiction in my adult years started in my childhood. When exactly did I start to think I needed to be perfect to be loveable? And when did I start hating being a kid and begin acting 28 instead of 12? My parents were loving and stable – did that make me feel safer to take risks? Thoughts like these all bubbling and swirling around as I continue down the path of recovery.

Yesterday, I was running through the park where I played as a kid, puked as a teenager, pushed a stroller as a young mom, and now where I work out my middle-aged ass on a regular basis. I was listening to Ellie, Lisa and Amanda chat on The Bubble Hour podcast in my earbuds when suddenly PLOP!

A drop of truth fell out of the sky and stopped me in my tracks. I was right under a grove of trees.

I pulled out my headphones and took a sharp breath.

These trees are the size of my recovery.

My life has unfolded in this neighbourhood - recovery and all.
My life has unfolded in this neighbourhood – recovery and all.

You see, I was there the day these trees were planted. I lived up the street and I remember the day this park opened to the public. I was nine and my friends and I were so excited to have a park with paths, trees, and even a lake with footbridges to explore.

These trees were nothing but little sticks back then.

What stopped me was this – I was still innocent when these trees were planted.

Later that summer, something happened that became one of the many seeds of my addiction: I was molested on several occasions by another kid. It wasn’t a violent experience or even particularly horrible, to be honest. But I catalogued it as something that made me bad, and now I can see how I started to change afterwards.

See these trees? They’ve been growing since that summer. They are the size of all I seek to overcome; they are the size of my recovery.

So there I was yesterday – sweating from my run, sobbing from this realization, and marveling at the physical presence of my addiction all cool and shady in the morning sun.

These trees are big. No wonder it takes so long to heal. No wonder it sometimes feels overwhelming.

Should I burn them down? Kick at them? Chop them down?

Do I climb up them or sit down under them?


I walk among them, passing through. They can’t move, but I can go wherever I choose.

On my way through the grove, I spot something else. A slender stalk emerging from a trunk – a new beginning.

Things change.

Life goes on.