Does this rustic Canadian beach look like a nice place for a stroll?
I walk this stretch almost every day when we are here at the lake. Sometimes twice a day. Often with my dog, generally by myself. I know every nook, cabin, rock, weed, and tree. I have come here every summer for 33 years and walked this beach hundreds of times.
When I leave the cabin on my own, my husband says, “Take your phone. Which route are you taking?” It seems slightly overprotective, and I rather love his concern. I am not a risk-taker. Whether I am kayaking, paddleboarding, or going for a walk, rest assured I will proceed in the most awkwardly overcautious manner possible. There is almost zero chance of me encountering a problem, beyond maybe a wasp bite or the misapplication of sunscreen.
My pride has taken a bit of a beating this summer. My swimsuit is now, well, not fitting quite the same. And the other day, I was trying to pull myself up the ladder into the boat and kept slipping back into the water. I felt awkward, all noodle-armed and bottom-heavy. I’ve been slacking on the yoga and exercise, and excelling at the dessert-eating. Plus, you know, menopause and all.
I look the same, I just don’t feel the same.
So needless to say, this particular walk was both necessary (post-dessert) and within my comfort zone.
Take your phone. Tell me your route.
Eye-roll. Smile. Leave.
Now. Do these rocks look like an appropriate place to do gymnastics?
They are not.
Nevertheless, I managed a backward shoulder roll while crossing this short rocky section of the beach. The same rocky section I have walked for decades without incident. But this day, I fell. Slowly. Backwards.
Before it happened, I was simply catching my balance. Hop to a rock, wait, balance, next rock, balance. It is fun. I like it. Wearing flip-flops was a bad idea, though. I knew better but I did it anyway. The sand was wet, the rocks were wet, but I pressed on as if nothing was different. I was taking chances, little baby chances.
Bad idea, I thought as my sandy flip-flops flipped and flopped over a slick stone.
Oh no, I may have said out loud, as the heavy-bottom, noodle-arm feeling returned and I reached out unsuccessfully for something to hang onto.
What is behind me? I tried to remember as I felt myself falling backwards, calmly wondering what part of my body was going to need protecting on the way down.
How is this going to turn out? Why is there time to think so much? I felt myself going upside down and remembered having the exact same thoughts the last time I fell in slow motion, which was on a ski hill and if you are wondering how that went, click here.
Well now, this is just embarrassing. I’d hit the ground without incident or injury but now the force of the fall was propelling me “ass over teakettle” (as my mother would say) and at this particular moment I was upside down and somewhat impressed with myself for turning this into a backward summersault, albeit a graceless one. (Knees apart, toes not pointed, did not stick the landing. My junior high phys ed teacher would grade it a C-.)
Which leads me to this:
(Artistic rendering of dramatic life moment.)
I allowed myself to lay in place momentarily in case someone had witnessed my fall and perchance might come running to my rescue. I wasn’t hurt and yet…well, it seemed appropriate to just give it a few breaths.
No one coming to check on my wellbeing? Oh okay. Great, actually. That means no one witnessed this. Oh right, except me.
Now listen, if you’re a regular reader you’ll know that I can suss out a recovery analogy from life’s little moments. Especially the awkward ones.
I knew better but I did it anyway….
I pressed on as if nothing was different. I was taking chances, little baby chances….
This is a story about a middle age woman who went for a walk and had a harmless tumble. It is also the story of that time you went to a party straight from work without eating first. It is about every sober person who said, “I am okay and everything is fine,” when that was not the truth.
Wait, wait, there is more.
The next day, my husband and I decided to cut down a tree that was growing too close to the cabin. I was on the guide ropes, my noodle arms responsible for tugging in the direction we wanted it to fall: away from the cabin.
Nothing was damaged, but the poor dog was terrified from the crash.
I took her for a walk to calm her down.
I double-knotted my runners, and headed back to the beach.
Want to come on retreat with me? Meet You at Kripalu!
Have you watched my kayaking video yet? Come Paddling With Me
Do you ruminate on bad memories? Try this: Memory Modification: A Tool for Recovery
I am back home again in southern Alberta, settling into my routine. To wit, my routine now seems to include not getting to yoga, not getting my 10,000 steps a day in, not cooking regular meals, and not writing as much as I had planned. I am floundering.
On Friday night, we had our little grandsons come for a sleepover and it was a wonderful evening of reading books, sculpting play dough, eating snacks and missing the official bedtime by a long shot (unintentionally – they were too excited to fall asleep even though we got them to bed on time). Mornings are the best – all snuggles and pjs and quiet chatter.
I was feeling desperate to get some serious writing done. I am 19 days out from the arbitrary deadline I gave myself to finish a first draft of my novel and I need to get at it. I decided to send myself on an overnight writing retreat to the ski hill – our big family cabin is empty and quiet in the off-season; a perfect place to hide away and write. As soon as the little boys went home, I grabbed my laptop and a tea from Tim Horton’s (large, one milk, two sweeteners), and started driving.
So here I am, writing on the deck. That is not a painting behind me, that is the reflection of the mountain view. I used to drink a lot here, like a lot of people do on ski vacations. Now I drink tea and revel in the freedom and power of sobriety.
From the Rocky Mountain of southern Alberta, I wish you all freedom and peace.
I promised to write during my last trip but I was sooooo relaxed that I could only manage a few pictures on Instagram. Have a peek at @unpickledblog to see a handful of photos from the SheRecovers retreat I was attending in Mexico.
The retreat is held at a gorgeous beachfront home that was built to host private groups so it’s perfectly suited for a yoga retreat. Every single thing about the week is restorative and joyful, but even better than the sun, sand, yoga, massages and gourmet food are the friendships I’ve made with incredible women from around the world.
I came home to a whirlwind four days of laundry, errands, seeing the family, and tending to life before packing up and driving 8 hours north to the lake.
Here in Canada it is Victoria Day Weekend, which for us means opening the lake cottage for the summer. The first to arrive has to ensure a tank of water is delivered, the septic truck is called out, the groceries are loaded and the grass gets cut. Then the rest of the family rolls in – this year totalling 16 humans and 5 dogs. Some put in the pier and boat hoist, some built a fire, some cook the meals, some do dishes, some fish, some read. Everyone does their fair share of work so there’s lots of time to play together. Paddle boards, games, boating, walks on the beach and visiting in the sunshine.
The two locations are worlds away and so too the experience of being with a houseful of new friends vs. together with extended family. Both are wonderful and exhausting in the best kind of way.
I recall writing a post several years ago about feeling upset because one of the kids drank the San Pelligrino I’d brought to the lake for *me*. Now it’s just so much easier. As long as there’s coffee (and cream!) for mornings I’m fine.
After dinner last night I enjoyed a different kind of nightcap: an hour of paddling solo in my kayak. Pure bliss.
I’m grateful to have an interesting life! From the beaches of Mexico to the Boreal Forest of Alberta, I know I am living my life to the fullest and being completely present.
Back from one trip, leaving already for another. Lest you should think all I do is travel and live the Life of Riley (some days I think so too!), excuse me while I hustle for my worthiness by noting that in the 10 days at home between vacations I hosted two family dinners, babysit my grandkids twice and my niece’s little ones too, sat chained to my desk for several days doing (much loathed) accounting for our business, vacuumed, went to Costco and bought a new vacuum, revacuumed (Dyson V6 – holy hell what a miracle machine!), did 12 loads of laundry, lost 5 lbs, endured a migraine, recorded a Bubble Hour episode, played my first game of curling since breaking my leg (yah, I’ve still got it!), got new boots (see photo above), attended a “Lean In” luncheon, and last night had a great time at a dinner party (for the foodies, the hostess served from Donna Hay’s Easy Entertaining recipes: onion & feta tartlets, grilled salmon, stuffed zucchini, and some kind of fennel slaw. A true Canadian desert: Saskatoon pie from a Hutterite Colony – if that’s garbledegook to you then you need to put Alberta on your bucket list!).
For pictures from my Europe trip with my mom and sisters mentioned in my last post, visit my Instagram page @unpickledblog. (Btw, that trip worked out wonderfully. If you have teenage girls that are driving you nuts with their squabbling, take heart that they’ll get along fine in their 50s.)
My trip today is to a little spa on Vancouver Island to meet two friends from high school whom I haven’t seen in nearly a decade. We lived in dorm together at a Lutheran boarding school in the 1980s and life has taken us in dramatically different directions since. I’m flying on points and the three of us are sharing a room, so this is definitely a budget-friendly trip. I won’t worry a speck about splurging on a few massages (3!) and several yoga sessions (6!) while I’m there (4 nights!).
I’m also excited that I’ve connected with some women in recovery on the island who I’ll meet up with. We don’t know each other but they’re familiar with my work here and on the podcast and a mutual friend put us in touch. I love sober meet ups!
Now you may not believe this, but right before I left my husband convinced me to join him on a trip to visit his mom in Palm Spring five days after I get home again. I started to rattle off all the reasons I should stay home (month end, year end, guilt…) when I realized I could easily bring my work along and manage just fine.
Why not? Life is for living, and I’m all in.
(PS speaking of sober meetups, I’d love to have coffee with any readers in the Palm Springs area when I’m there in the first week of November. Leave a comment here or drop a message on my Facebook page if you’d like to connect. I’ll be staying in Indio.)
Having conquered 100km of The Cotswolds on foot, we moved on to the next phase of our adventure: a cruise on the Rhine River from Basel, Switzerland to Amsterdam, Netherlands.
It is pure luxury but booze is everywhere – including the cake and chocolates here in Germany where we toured today. It keeps me on my toes and I have to remind myself that there are things I could do to further protect my sobriety, if needed: call the desk to have our mini bar cleared of alcohol and pull a waiter aside and tip him to be my guardian angel (removing wine glasses from my setting and delivering a preagreed order on arrival). If I were travelling alone, I would do this on a heartbeat. As it is, my husband is very considerate and gives me accountability and support.
I’ve grown weary of my puffball hair and booked an appointment for a blow out with the onboard stylist for the hefty fee of 35 euros. Hopefully it will last a day or two. I have otherwise purchased nothing but a book at Heathrow airport (“The Year of Living Danishly” by Helen Russell) and a teensy amber angel today in Heidelberg, so paying for a few hours of sane hair feels justifiable. I’m telling myself it’s also a courtesy to the other passengers, because this current mass of fluff and doingers I’m sporting is plain disrespectful to onlookers. (Post salon update: normality restored!)
We’ve been on board 2 days and have toured castles, listened to opera (which I loved, who knew?), and walked a thousand cobblestone streets already. I write this from a quiet balcony, watching the beautiful German shores go by. Because we are between cities, the internet is quite weak so I am unable to upload photos for now. More to follow when conditions allow, because I so want to share this wonderful experience with you.
PS – Sober is better!
Last weekend we went to a wedding in Las Vegas and I’ll admit I wondered how it would feel to be sober in THE party town.
Sparks were flying before we even left the airport, as one rowdy passenger was pulled aside at the gate and told he wouldn’t be served alcohol on the plane. Seated nearby once on board, we listened to him pleade and argue with the crew throughout the three-hour flight. Delightful! When we landed, he muttered “See you next Tuesday” to the flight attendant, which my husband informed me is code for the nasty C-word.
I had a small epiphany as we walked the strip after arriving: Vegas might be easier for me sober than it was before. I’d been there twice for conventions many years ago, before drinking became entirely problematic for me. I was there for business conventions and wasn’t interested in the other distractions. If I had visited the city during the time of my active addiction, I would have been very bothered by the public displays of drunkenness because I so cherished my hidden secret. I drank on my own terms, as a reward after working hard all day. Vegas offers no chance to maintain that front! There is no work to be rewarded, no pretence of anything but indulgence. I rejected that image, resented that idea. I drank in a private, regimented way that Vegas would have totally disrupted. I don’t think I could have enjoyed myself there in those days.
It was good to see our family at the wedding, the bride was stunning and the Elvis minister was charming. We had a lot of laughs, ate some very good food, spent a few hours shopping, and were soon on our way home again without ever even sitting at a slot machine.
Earlier in my sobriety, I was very dependent on a certain routine of morning coffee and bedtime tea that would have been difficult to replicate in Las Vegas because there wasn’t even a coffee maker in our hotel room (clearly the hospitality industry is hell bent on keeping visitors out where they can spend money!). I think the noise, crowds, stimulation, and general ick-factor would have spiked my anxiety and I would have been a mess. I doubt I would have drank but I might have taken Gravol to knock myself out, which in some ways is a relapse (pills to escape, even just Gravol!).
One of the great lessons of recovery for me has been withstanding discomfort. I did feel overwhelmed at times, and instead of letting the feelings rule me I breathed and waited. I did see people who were rowdy and loud, and I released the urge to judge. I saw people who made me sad – homeless people, young women who seemed exploited, and foreign workers handing out smut cards – and my heart went out to them.
The most lasting impression – aside from the gorgeous bride, our reason for being there – was a couple we sat behind on the flight home. There was tension between them, clearly. The wife was quite obviously hung over, a shroud of shame and pain clung to her shoulders. Her eyes looked dead in that way many of us in recovery know all too well – a mix of defeat and defiance. Her husband was silent before, during, and after the flight. He sheparded her through the crowds but walked a step ahead. He acknowledged when she spoke to him but his eyes were quiet steel. Jesus,what happened with these two? Whatever it was, the fallout was evident. My heart ached for them both, and I couldn’t help feel that their story was a long way from over.
Just as I wished a life of happiness or the bride and groom, I went home hoping happiness might find the cast of real-life characters whose faces wouldn’t leave my mind: the young man who was drunk at the airport, the homeless man who ran for his life throug the hotel lobby with a stolen sandwich in his hand, the young woman in a leather miniskirt and platform shoes with glazed eyes leaning heavily on an older man, that angry couple on the flight home.
I’d had just as much fun on Freemont Street with my Lime Perrier as everyone else with their booze, but my heart was glad to go home and get back to normal.