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Author Archives: UnPickled

Tending

My inlaws have a summer cottage on a wooded lake lot. We gather here on (Canadian) May long weekend to open it for the season. We push the pier and boat hoist into the ice cold water, rake the beach, knock cobwebs from the cabin’s rafters and old leaves from the deck.  

My husband and I live a day’s drive south on the prairies where trees only grow if they’re planted and pampered. We are always amazed here of the forest’s abundance. Every spring it’s a flurry of cutting and clearing and stacking and splitting and burning because there are TOO MANY trees. Not too many as far as nature is concerned, of course. But as good stewards of our land, we have to stay ahead of trees that are a danger to fall in a storm and damage the cottage or cars. 


The whole family pitched in today. Some were cutting, some were hauling. I was on bonfire duty. I burned a dozen trees and both of my shoulders. 


As I snapped branches and fed the fire continuously, I reflected on how this process is so like life. We keep at it continuously, and nature keeps coming back at us. We can let things grow wildly and unfold as they will, or we can do our best to tend and clear and shape our corner of the world. 

Right now in my life, I am working to change my habits of judgement and criticism. I’m trying hard to replace them with compassion, kindness or, in a pinch,  detachment. I’m continuously burning broken branches of self-doubt, body image, comparison, and other old habits. 

Now that the first jobs of the season are done, our remaining visits here this summer will be more relaxation than work. There’s always some enjoyable puttering available for those inclined to relax via broom, rake or saw, but of course it’s interspersed with fishing, golf, and naps on the beach. At least until September,  when we repeat the errands of May in reverse – removing the boat and pier, putting away, shutting down. 

All of it is poetry in motion. Year after year, it’s the same and yet different. We flip back through the photo albums and marvel how the babies appeared and grew and even themseves become parents. How our clothes and hairstyles have changed through the decades, but still here we are. The pups that became dogs and then memories, the new pups replaced them who are now old themselves. 

Top: my husband and I bathing our son on the deck in 1992

Bottom: our son and his wife bathing our grandson on the deck in 2015

Still we rake the beach and cut the grass and sweep the leaves and chop the trees and burn the logs. Nature keeps going and growing, our work just shapes it for a season. The trick is to learn to enjoy it and to appreciate the purpose, otherwise the work seems unending and meaningless. 

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Hi from New York

I’m here, it’s happening. A recovery conference in New York City for 500 women. Before things begin this afternoon, I’m headed out for a walk in the rain to stand next to the Brooklyn Bridge and the Trade Centre Memorial and feel my size next to theirs. It’s one thing to see pictures, but to experience the human scale of me:thing is another entirely. 

I remember being scared that travelling would be boring sober. Hah! Last night 7 women – new friends – piled into a cab and made our way through the Trump-protecting barricades to an iconic ice cream shop where we sat over tea and sweets laughing until midnight. Fabulous. 

Here is the view of the river from my hotel room. I slept with the window open and woke to horns and hustle. Little kids walking to school by themselves. Runners. Delivery trucks. Business people strutting past. 

Time to grab an umbrella and go join them. 

In 10 hours, I’ll be listening to Glennon Doyle Melton speak. I hope I can keep my composure and avoid acting like a fan girl at a Beatles concert. 

Life give us so many opportunities. Thank God I removed my wine-blinders!

Coffee in My Kitchen

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This is the view from my kitchen sink, looking over our island banquette to a pasture of horses and ponies. Please join me for a coffee at my new kitchen table, which was custom made of salvaged lumber from the old Pabst Brewery in Milwaukee (no kidding!). The ceiling beams, too. I love this kitchen and this view. I am a designer and this is one of my final projects before we retire.

But wait. What is that field of mud between my fence and the pasture? What are those stakes in the ground?

Yes, I live in a new neighbourhood – the homebuilder’s curse. By summer there will be houses blocking our view, so I am enjoying the vista while I can.

Occasionally my husband and I speculate on what type of homes are most likely to go up before us – front loading garage, two story, hopefully not too tall so we can still see the mountains from our second floor. Then we stop ourselves, it’s beyond our control. This is our home, our neighbourhood. We will embrace what comes and make our own corner the very best it can be.

We have a plan for this. The wooden fence you see pictured is part of a courtyard that will have a carefully planted canopy of trees arranged on both sides, to offer privacy and to become our own view. While I will soon lose sight of distant horses, I’ll gain an arrangement of branches, leaves and blossoms closer by.

The Serenity Prayer applies to landscaping as much as recovery: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change those I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

So, too, does the old adage to “stay on your own side of the street”.

Reading Your Messages on Air

It seemed easier to talk about sobriety and grief than write about it so I recorded this episode of The Bubble Hour, including insightful comments and messages from readers of this blog. Heartfelt thanks to all who have commented about your own experiences with grief and alcohol – good or bad. I have learned so much from you and taken strength from your honesty and kindness.

We pretty much all go through this eventually and we can all learn so much from one another.

Please have a listen.

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/bubblehour/2017/04/12/listener-letters-on-staying-sober-through-grief

//percolate.blogtalkradio.com/offsiteplayer?hostId=387055&episodeId=9951889

Six Years

On Monday I celebrated six years of life without alcohol. How is it that the days became years?

The past few months went from trying to taxing to gruelling. I kept my chin up after breaking my leg and spent January indoors. Meanwhile we were preparing to move to a new house, and I paced myself for the challenges of this transition. Being non-weight-bearing on crutches meant giving up a significant amount of my cherished control. Then, just before the move my dad was hospitalized and began a final month-long decline. He passed away earlier this month.

I got through it all, as we do. It so happens that a dear friend of mine went through an eerily parallel experience just a few weeks ahead of me – a cast and crutches, the death of a parent – and she seemed so strong and capable. I resist comparing my insides to her outsides, instead following her lead for getting things done and moving forward.

My leg is slowly healing, my heart is mending, but my mind is dull. I feel kicked and drained. I have nothing left to give at this moment, I need time to fill up again.

I will be back with more podcasts and posts, but I need some time. I read your comments and messages, and they make me smile. I feel behind on responding, but I try not to pressure myself too much. Expectations and resentments, and all that you know.

Six years sober, but these past few weeks were not so easy. It occurred to me on the night my dad died that I had good reason to drink, though I chose not to drink. Drinking dreams have returned, vivid and unsettling – a sign that something needs attention.

Six years of learning, lessons, tribe building, clarity and growth have come to this, prepared me for this. I will gather it all around me like a soft blanket and wrap up in the safety of my recovery to get me through and fill me up, until I have enough reserves to begin sharing and giving again.

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A Tale of Two Valentines

On Valentines Day 2011, I rushed to the local drug store on my way home from work to purchase a hasty but heartfelt gift for my husband. I chose a few items from the dwindling inventory and stood in line with the other last-minute romantics. 

I glanced back at the growing line  behind me and spotted a familiar handsome blonde fellow: my better half. Our eyes met and we burst out laughing. 

“What are you getting up there?” he asked over the curious folks between us. 

“What are YOU getting?” I replied. 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours!” 

Now the whole line was laughing along with us. 

We stepped to the side and looked over the impersonal gifts we’d selected for each other.

“It really is the thought that counts,” one of us wisely concluded. “We don’t need any of this stuff. This was already the best part of the day.”

We put everything back and went home chuckling. 

I had forgotten all about that incident but since I wrote about it on Facebook, it cane up this morning as a “Memory” update. 

I read it aloud to my husband while we sipped our morning coffee together. He’d forgotten it also and we both laughed all over again as if hearing it for the first time. 

Growing old isn’t so bad, especially together. 

Happy Valentines Day. 

Analogy 101 

I did it, I survived six weeks in a leg cast. 

“You’re done,” said the specialist. “Go home and throw away the air cast. Enjoy. Any questions?”

“Can I ski?”

“Didn’t you break your leg skiing…? Anyway, no. Anything that could cause an uncontrolled fall should be avoided. 12 weeks minimum. Take the rest of the season off.”

Okay, fine. There’s still plenty of activities to enjoy – yoga, snow shoes, Costco….

I went home and quickly discovered Problem #1: we moved into our new house a few days earlier and some boxes had yet to be brought from the old place. The only shoe I had was the one shoe on my good foot when we moved. So back into the car with my aircast to reunite with my beloved footwear collection. 

What to wear first…? Wait, my choices would be limited by the  snowy conditions. So then, which boots to wear first? Black, definitely the black boots. Maybe the red. Or the tan. 

I burst through the door and tore off the air cast, sitting on the step to pull on my go-to black boots. 

Cue record scratch. Hello, Problem #2. 

My newly freed foot is still so swollen and sore that it wouldn’t go into the boot. Not even maybe. No amount of butter, prayers, or stubbornness could get my Fred Flintsone foot into the lady boot of my choice. I then began working my way through the closet, realizing to my disappointment that the only shoe to fit was a leather high top, the mate to the one shoe I had worn on moving day. Le sigh. 


Furthermore, I now walk like a zombie. My leg is squooshy and the ankle is  tender. It turns out that a lower leg break is generally preceded by a bad sprain – a limb twisted bad enough to snap the bone is going to have a lot of soft tissue damage, which is slower to heal than the bone itself. So yoga and snow shoes and shopping will have to wait. 

I’d looked forward to February 9th as THE day, the cast would come off and rainbows would shine and crowds would part as I sashayed through on two feet, but what I got was….pfffft. 

I’ve spent the past two days drawing analogies between all this and recovery, shaping a blog post to capture the lesson but…more pffft. I’m sick of myself. I’m sick of my thoughts, I’m tired of the voices in my head. I’ve spent way too much time there lately and I just. can’t. even. anymore. 

I’d rather hear what YOU think. What lesson do you see in this moment? What analogy can you draw between this scenario and recovery?

Please comment with your insight, I’d love to hear it. 

Meanwhile I’ll get back to drawing the alphabet in the air with my toes, which is supposed to help bring my leg back to life, pausing only to read your comments and give thanks. 

Are We There Yet?

My daily blog posts got sidelined by life. We are building a new house which we move into TOMORROW (!!!) and yes, I am still in a leg cast with crutches and a splint in my hand. Then last week my dad took a turn for the worse and is in the hospital. My sisters and I are taking turns staying with him during visiting hours. My life has been a blur of packing boxes, rides to the hospital, hours at his bedside, and long slow transitions of crutch-walking in between. 

What I’m not doing is thinking about drinking. However hard this particular chapter gets I have no urge to numb or escape. We can do hard things, right? 

I was watching Melissa McCarthy’s hilarious SNL bit after a long day at the hospital and suddenly felt a flood of gratitude for my tea (in a nice mug, made in my kitchen and not in a plastic cup on a tray like the one on dad’s untouched lunch tray), for my bed with memory foam and nice blankets (compared to the yellow hospital sheets) and my cuddly puppy (oh how many people in care are missing their beloved pets?). 

This is LIFE. The freedom to get up and go pee in my own (pretty) bathroom without ringing for help. The freedom to go to the fridge and choose what to eat. To go stand outside and catch a snowflake on my tongue, should the urge strike. 

Visiting my kids and grandkids, even briefly, keeps me grounded and full. It puts things in perspective and balances the end-of-life reality that must be faced when I return to my dad’s room. Life has a beginning, a middle, and an end. 

Recovery has taught me to hold space for people that are hurting. I know how to give service without making the situation about me. I can respect that this is part of his journey, and do what I can to help him through. 

It could be days, months, and God help us, years. It’s surprising how a heart can keep beating long after the body and mind are spent. A gentle end would be a gift. We’ve dreaded this stage and yet here it is; worrying did nothing to prevent it. 

Life is busy and multilayered. I’m excited about our new house and busy with work and involved with my kids and in love with my husband and committed to my hours each day holding space for my dad. And the dog needs to be fed and let out to pee constantly, and my cast is stinky and annoying, and I miss grocery shopping, and I really need to get my nails done somehow but there’s no time. Little thing and big things. All the things….

I’m behind in responding to comments and emails. Please bare with me (bear with me? Do either or both) as posts and responses may be sparse until things settle. If you’d like to help me, the greatest thing you could possible do would be to answer other comments, especially if you see someone starting out or struggling. (You can do so anonymously by leaving the email address blank when you comment). Not only will you be helping each other, but it fills my heart when I read them. 

Thanks all. Stay well. 

Jean

27 Days On Crutches, 2138 Days Sober 

…and still going strong!

I took a break from blogging to enjoy my grandsons at the ski hill this past weekend. What a treat it is to spend time with little ones! I love the way 2-year-old Calvin says “bo-na-na” for banana and “gii” for ski (both of which he loves). Baby Sam entertained me from his jolly jumper. When the kids were in bed we watched “Eddie the Eagle” – a fun ski movie that took us back to watching the ’88 Winter Olympics from our university basement suite. Good family time all around. 

Today I was craving a new pastime and my kids were kind enough to take me to the mall for my first shopping trip in over 3 weeks. It was a ton of effort just to manoeuvre through the mall on crutches but it felt so great to be out and about. 

We stopped at the craft store to find me a new activity to pass the next two weeks – 16 more days until I walk again!! – and look what I came home with:


BEADS!!!

Here is my first creation. It’s a delightful pass time. I highly recommend it for those looking for a way to fill your wine-less evening hours. 

Not That Bad

“I’m not sure I really need to quit, I’m not that bad. I can’t stop drinking but I’m not that bad.”

I hear it all the time. I used to say the same about myself. 

Today I got a new splint for my hand. This is the third splint in as many weeks, ordered by the specialist after multiple referrals and appointments. The ligaments are torn and I’ll have to wear this custom, hard-shell cast-like splint to bed, in the shower, 24/7   for at least another month. Longer than the cast on my broken leg!

Most people would agree that Skiiers Thumb is *not as bad* as a broken leg, yet the treatment for both is immobilization and protection. 

I think we can say the same for addiction. You might not bad as bad as someone else, but never mind that. 

Just do what you need to do to get better. 

Hurrah for coffee!

My new sober adventure!

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