Tag: Feel Good

The Proof And The Pudding

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Photo May 03, 12 37 00 PM

I’m a believer. — It doesn’t take much.

There are days I’m a step up from gullible. But really, for the most part, it’s just that I have a enormous amount of faith. In people and in humanity. I live by my gut. And, some people will tell you this is my flaw — my hubris — but I believe that Belief is one of my greatest strengths.

So begins the second month in my Year of Happiness. And, you guessed it — our theme for the next four weeks is: Belief.

It may appear that I’ve taken things out of sequential order. Shouldn’t Belief come before Surrender, you ask? It’s a fair question. Believing in something before you Surrender yourself to it seems, well, logical. But, when it comes to Happiness, your logic is worthless. Your gut, however, — priceless.

You’ve heard it before: Seeing is Believing. It’s the hallmark slogan for the skeptical and faithless. For many, proof is required if they’re going to give an inch. People want to be sure when they invest their time, money, and yes, even their Happiness in something. They want a guarantee for the return on their investments. They want their dividends paid.

The thing is, when it comes to Happiness, there isn’t a formula. We can’t trade one stock for another and expect to finish out the day trading up twenty points. And, this is the reason we have to Surrender to Happiness before we believe in it. We have to turn ourselves over to Happiness long enough to buy into it. We take a risk. And, in doing so, we begin to see Happiness show up in our lives. We gain momentum. And, with that tiny bit of proof, we leverage enough confidence to believe in the possibility of our own Happiness.

Belief is more than knowing Happiness exists. Even if we are at the bottom of our barrel, we know that there is something more out there. We are designed to desire Happiness. It’s human nature. It’s achievement, I believe, is our purpose here on Earth. And Belief, when I talk about it in terms of Happiness, is intuiting and understanding that you are worthy of it.

In my career, I have played the part of the customer service guru. I know how to make you feel happy. I’ve worked with students, lawyers, chefs, corporate/celebrity clients, and upscale diners  — and it’s always been my job to identify what will make these people happy and get it to them quickly, and with a sparkling smile. Up until recent years, I believed that bringing other people joy was the thing that brought me the most joy. I was satisfied being a people-pleaser. — Or so I thought.

When I got sober, I realized that people-pleasing is its own drug. It gets you high, but, it’s euphoric buzz is short lived and it will bottom you out, fast. — Try falling helplessly in love with a heroin addict. You’ll learn very quickly, wanting to help and actually helping are two very different beasts.

After a long, hard fallout following my people-pleasing years, I discovered that if you don’t believe in yourself and you don’t make your own Happiness a priority, — you’ll never serve anyone else to the best of your ability.

Belief in your own Happiness, above all else, is essential. And, like Surrender, it’s a hard sell. We fight hard against the inclination to put ourselves before others, because we want to help. We want to make positive changes in the world. We want to create a place that others can believe in. And, that requires a lot of hard work. But, when you find the Belief within yourself to find your own joy and Happiness, you actually make it easier on yourself when it comes time to help others.

I’ve found, in just this short time living for my own Happiness, I have been able to connect and influence people around me in positive ways, effortlessly. When you are happy and connected to your own Belief in yourself, locked in to your unique way of being and seeing the world — people feel that energy, and they respond to it. It sounds woo-woo. And, maybe it is. I don’t have proof. There is no irrefutable data I can present to you — only my experience and observations.

This month, we’ll dive into our Beliefs around Happiness. Because, what we believe influences how we feel and act, exponentially. Happiness is a Belief. It’s a choice. A choice we make with little or no evidence to assure us. And, much like religion, Happiness requires us to trust something we will not always see standing in front of us.

Happiness asks that we be devoted. Reverent. And, the faith and Belief we have, in ourselves, our worth, and our right to Happiness — is the return on our investment. It pays our dividends. The proof isn’t in the pudding. — It is the pudding.

This week, I am starting small. I’m identifying the core Beliefs that have kept me removed from my own Happiness. And, I’ll have to take these results back to the drawing board. Because, if your Beliefs do not lead you to Happiness — you’re doing it wrong.

That’s my gut feeling. — And, it’s proof enough for me.

 

One Face To Rule Them All

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Photo Apr 26, 1 42 51 PM

I’ve been a lot of things. — But, I’ve never been two-faced.

I’ll say exactly what I’m thinking or I won’t say anything at all. No-holds-barred or total silence. That’s how I roll. When I first moved to the West Coast, I got a lot of flack for my New York City attitude and candor. Portland may be progressive, but, ladies with loud, fast, and foul mouths were a commodity in my circle.

At first, that made me self conscious. I got a lot of looks, like, “Did she say that out loud?” or “Wow, she’s obnoxious.” But once I established who was a part of my tribe, I started to realize that being genuine — despite my volume, speed, and vulgarity — will always be an asset.

My mom talks about being “an open book.” The whole “what you see is what you get” approach to living. Sometimes it can feel like you’ve got a lot to lose when you put everything out there. Humans are freakin’ complex . At any given time, we have access to a lot more than just one face. And, when you’re unapologetically you, you put that one face out there to be judged. The sad truth is, no matter how good/kind/genuine you are — someone will always judge you harshly.

Surrendering those faces you think you need, is essential to your Happiness. The only face you really need, is the one that sings your soul and honors your intuition. Scary? Hell yes. But, when you’re genuinely you, Happiness is pulled toward you like a magnet, because you no longer have the stress of managing the fake-faces that you’ve grown accustomed to wearing.

Surrendering everything this month has been far more magical than I’d anticipated. I never imagined that, in under four weeks, I would be feeling more genuine than I ever have in my life. I’m learning that when we are living in joy — or at the very least, attempting to — we become available to ourselves in new, unpredictable ways.

Wear your own face. Just the one. — Always. It is the sincerest form of Surrender you can practice. In a place of Surrender, with one, true face, we can be our most authentic selves. And, from this place of ingenuity, we can be the most present for ourselves and for others.

Even if your Happiness hasn’t been running full throttle, I hope you’ve managed to tag along with me this past month. The last four weeks have shown me that Happiness is only as far away as you’ve thrown it.

I am really excited about what’s coming. It’s going to be big. For me — it’s already big.

Here’s my Year of Happiness round-up if you’re late to the party:

Month 1: Surrender

Week 1: Start where you are. — Happy is a choice. So, choose it! The timing is never going to be perfect and it won’t feel truly organic for awhile. So, just start. Smile more. Do things that you love. Make the people you love a batch of cookies. Start here, start now. Start big, start small — Just start.

Week 2: Slow down. — I know. I know. You want some Happiness immediately. We all do. But, Surrender is a process that involves patience and reflection. It’s not a race. Take your time, because, the more thorough you are now, the more Happiness you’ll have room for later. Be deliberate. Don’t rush like I did — it’ll save you BIG TIME on speeding fines.  A cliché proverb worth repeating: The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. ~ Lao Tsu

Week 3: Write a new story. — Surrendering who you were is hard, but, hanging on to the old, musty version of yourself is harder. Being present for the life you’re living today makes reaching for Happiness a heck of a lot easier. The past made you who you are today — so surrendering your old, sad stories may leave you feeling a little lost — but you’re not losing anything. Create your new story from a place of joy, and watch Happiness start showing up for you in new and beautiful ways.

Week 4: Face yourself. — Sometimes surrendering to your most authentic self is scary. There are times you’ll feel rejected or judged. But, more often than not, being who you are — just you — not someone you wish you were, will attract the people who fit seamlessly into your life. Being genuine attracts genuine people and genuine people bring with them Happiness beyond measure.

Thank you, my lovely readers, for being here. If you’re still following along, I want you to know how much I appreciate your being a part of my amazing tribe.

 

 

The Story I Didn’t Write

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When I moved back to New York City, I had a story.

I had a bunch of stories. Stories about what happened in Portland. Stories about moving back home. Stories about my plans moving forward. Stories about who I was and who I am and who I’m going to be.

But, time passes. Eight months, if anyone’s counting. — I sure-as-fuck am. And, this making-Happiness-a-priority business was the first  in an unexpected chain of events. Not the least of which is — the author of my story has changed. I’m realizing that Surrender, if you let it, will write your story all on its own. And, it’s an unparalleled kind of freedom.

When it comes to Happiness — stay out of its way. We spend a lot of time being our own worst enemies. We write all these stories about who we were and are and plan on being — and it doesn’t help us. In 12-Step recovery they’re always harping on about tempering your expectations. And, I hate that. I don’t like tempering anything. I tempered my drinking — wasn’t that enough?

It’s not about tempering Goddammit. No. Fuck that. — It’s about expectations in general. — Don’t have them. Don’t have some prepackaged story that you’ve ghost written for another version of yourself. Dream. In the moment. Go for it, right then and there. Don’t plan on anything. Write as you go. Or, don’t bother, let Surrender write the whole fucking thing for you. The story shows up. — It’s a magical business, storytelling. And, planning and tempering — who needs it when you’ve got magic?

When I touched down in New York, this was my story: I was going to be at home for a few months, settle in, save some dough, take a break, regroup, and move to upstate New York to start anew. Hills and mountains. Fresh air and quiet. I played with the variables. Different jobs. Small business. Big business. Maybe I’d take a little extra time off and make the big push to work on, heck, finish, my book. I didn’t know a damn thing. But, I just kept on writing that story. I kept turning up the heat. — Do it Sarah. Get there. Finish this. Make the move worth it. But, worth what?

Eight months. I watched the tree outside my bedroom window go through a full life cycle. I battled a pretty gnarly bout of anxiety and depression. I wrote. I didn’t write. I became a barista. I rode the subway. I applied for jobs. I interviewed for jobs. The story I’m living now is nothing like the one I was writing in my head on the flight here.

Since embarking on my Year of Happiness, I’ve been trying to figure out how I should go about surrendering my story. It’s tough. I’m so close to it. Attached. It’s personal. We spend a lot of time fine tuning our own stories. It’s hard letting them go. They are part of us. But, you know how the cliché goes — when you stop trying to write the next chapter, it writes itself. Happiness wants you to find the words. And, when your heart figures it out — it’s such a relief, Surrender. I can’t even tell you.

On my birthday road trip, I sat in my hotel room after spending hours walking up, down and all around Charleston, South Carolina. I had blisters and a nice sunburn. It was one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. Slow, romantic, surrounded by water, and clad in seersucker. Suddenly, I felt panicked. I became desperate to write that city into my story. I pulled up LinkedIn and Indeed and Monster and all the other job-hunting sites on the interwebs. After an hour of desperately clicking link after link in a wild frenzy — I broke from my craze and, I started laughing hysterically. I was a fool, and I knew it. I felt it punch me right in the face. — It was in front of me the whole time.

New York City.

In my old story, I had a lot of rules. I couldn’t stay here. I could stop here, but, I couldn’t put down roots. Not again. In my old story, it cost too much money, had too many old memories, too many bars I wouldn’t be drinking in, it was too crowded, too dirty, too hot, too cold. But, in my little room at the Charleston Holiday Inn Express, I remembered the real reason I came home eight months ago. — It’s too good to give up. — Every pricey, precious, boozy, bottle-necked, begrimed, humid, hyperborean inch of it.

Surrender, sometimes, is listening to the thing that your heart told you to do a long time ago. Before you started writing stories.

I am New York City. At my core. — Whatever it is and everything it isn’t.

I surrender to the city that broke my heart. And, I surrender, again, to the truth of the thing, which is — that same city saved my heart. It’s a magical business, storytelling.

And, in this story, the one I didn’t write, — I stay.

“Slow the Fuck Down.”: And Other Advice from Dad

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Photo Apr 12, 12 07 38 PM

My birthday gift to myself? — I took an impromptu road trip. I headed down south with pure wanderlust pumping through my veins. My radio was turned up, my windows were rolled down —  and no one was going to stop me.*

*Until I got pulled over for speeding.

Not only did I get pulled over, I received a summons. Not your regular-old speeding ticket. Apparently, I was driving “recklessly.” Well, that’s what they call it in Virginia. In New York, it’s called driving. But, in any case, I have to send a lawyer to represent me at a Virginia courthouse in June. I’m told that I’ll just have to pay a fine. Which, I guess I had coming. This is America after all. Penalties — I expected.

What I wasn’t expecting, was having a revelatory moment. After the initial panic of being pulled over subsided I, of course, Googled my charges. And then, promptly, I texted my father — an attorney — freaking out. Positive that I was going to have to serve a year in prison, just one day after turning 32, I was wigging out. How was I going to spin this, my “Year of Happiness,” into my “Year of Incarceration”? This was definitely among the worst news I could have received. But, in proper Dad-like-fashion, he escorted me off my ledge in crazy-town, and convinced me everything would be just fine. He told me to enjoy my trip. And, I sat in my hot car, staring at my iPhone, wondering — How?

After splashing some cold water on my face and sucking down an iced soy latte at a rest-stop Starbucks in Virginia Beach, I realized that I had to let myself surrender to the experience. If I was going to enjoy my trip — which had only begun 4 hours earlier — I had to let my panic and frustration go.

It’s easy to say “I surrender.” I think we all imagine that surrendering, once we decide to do so, is an easy action. We pull over to the side of the road, we say “Yes, officer. No, officer.” We get the ticket. And we accept what’s going on, because — we have to. But that’s just part of the surrender. It’s in the aftermath of surrender where we really have to do the dirty work.

Surrender isn’t in the action of giving in. Surrender is living with yourself after you’ve taken action. You give in. You give yourself up. But — then what? What’s the action that follows your surrender? Because, until you figure that out, there’s no way to know where your work lies.

It’s obvious — to me anyway — that we all want to be Happy. If being Happy were as easy as just wanting it, we’d all be living Happily every after. The thing is, Happiness isn’t just a vague concept. It’s actually quite specific. We are all unique and different beings. What makes me Happy, probably wouldn’t do much for you and vice versa. So, identifying what it is you want, being specific about the things that will bring you joy, is the first and most vital step to actually getting on the road to finding Happiness.

And, as someone who’s all over the map about what she wants, it’s no wonder I’ve been grasping at straws for so long. In the past, I’ve latched on to the wants and desires of the people I’ve loved. I thought, maybe, since they loved those things — I would too. But, that method has only led me down dead end roads.

This week, surrender means slowing down. Literally and figuratively. If I can’t put my finger on what I want — that’s OK. But, it means, at the very least, I have to surrender what I don’t want.

I don’t want another ticket. — So, I stick to the speed limit.

Surrender is identifying where the plan isn’t working, and implementing something that does work. That sounds rudimentary. I know. But, it’s a simple step that we all avoid and, as a result, we continually get stuck circling the situations and feelings we don’t want. We never let ourselves move on.

Truthfully, driving at 55 mph may not change my life, but, it’s doing something differently. It’s better than harping on about the thing that wasn’t working.

We want surrender to be fast. — Like, driving 79 mph in a 55 mph zone. — But, it’s not. It’s slow. Like, School Zone slow. And, it’s deliberate. It takes time.

So, this week — Month 1, Week 2 in my Year of Happiness, this is it: Surrender, at age 32, is taking your Dad’s advice to “Slow the fuck down.” I chose to abandon my panic and, instead, reveled in the fact that dear-old-Dad finally chose to speak in my superior vernacular of profanity. And, I found myself appreciating that, even though it may take time, we all can learn a new language.

Eventually, we can find ourselves speaking the very same language as the things to which we are desperate to connect. — Mainly Happiness. — Which, you should know, I did find on my road trip down south.

A journey that I decided to make — in spite of the speed limit.

 

The Great, Woo-Woo Crusade

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“The Year of Happiness.”

I know. Just reading it makes me want to barf a little bit, too. But, this is how it starts? Right?

As someone who has been perpetually on the dark side of things, the mere mention of Happiness is like being dragged out from a dark cellar into the light of a blazing sun and being screamed at in Chinese. Which is to say — I have no idea what’s happening.

But, it’s happening.

I’ve mentioned that I’m a self-help junkie. Books. Movies. Workbooks. Day planners. Online lectures and seminars. You name it — I’m into it. I’m not ashamed. Not to toot my own horn here, but, seriously, I’m post-doctorate-level-well-read in this genre. From the critically acclaimed to the absolute-worst-ever dreck, my self-helping skill spans oceans and continents. And yes, sometimes, I watch Oprah.

I’ve had many people poo-poo my love of the woo-woo. I’ve been slighted, both on social media and by “real life” peeps. I don’t care. Honestly, I’ve learned heaps about myself, and others, by burying myself in this kind of material. I’ve implemented changes in my own life, and, I’ve seen results.

So, the idea to devote the year to  “Choosing Happiness” didn’t just appear out of the ether. I figured out, long ago, there’s got to be something to this deliberate Happiness thing. But, until now, I didn’t see any way to implement it. Pure, unadulterated Happiness never made it into my self-help arsenal.

If I were so motivated, I could sink my whole life into analyzing my clinical depression. I could unpack the roots and effects of my alcoholism. I could self-help my way through a few more decades with all the crap I’ve stowed on deck. But, there’s an inherent dishonesty in avoiding it. — Happiness. — I kinda know that’s where the answers I’ve been seeking live. Yet, I’ve never really committed myself to getting there. I haven’t really made an effort to sell myself on the concept. And, if Happiness really is the Holy Grail of all this self-help questing, then — I guess it’s time for a Crusade.

That’s right. When I say I’m committing to a Year Of Happiness, I fucking mean it you guys.

That said, I realize, especially for a person like me, this endeavor is going to take organization and planning. Strategery. That’s where this blog steps in. This is the place where I’m going to splay Happiness out in my very own, Dexter-style kill-room and take it apart piece by piece. I’m going to figure out how everything works, and then, by God — I’m going to make it work for me.

Each of the next 12 months will examine a theme — not unlike the 12 Steps. (Apropos, I know.) And, each week, I plan on unpacking said themes and examining how they play into the Happy Factor.

More than anything else, I plan on using this space to eradicate all my well-rehearsed excuses.

*               *               *

Before I sobered up, I was convinced Happiness and sobriety were synonymous. I figured if I could just stop using, I’d finally arrive at Happiness. But, with 3 1/2+ years of sobriety — I know that isn’t true. However, I am sure both require the same caliber of commitment.

In that vein, April’s theme is Surrender. Is it cheesy? Maybe. But, it’s one of the most difficult and complex things you can do in your life. We surrender to people, places, concepts, laws, governments, feelings, faith, and ourselves — every single day. But, surrendering with intention is extremely difficult.

Surrender means starting where you are — details be damned.

And, surrendering to Happiness? For many of us, that means forfeiting all the baggage we’ve been lugging around. That’s hard. Surrendering to sobriety meant giving up an addiction — a torrid love affair. So too is the trade off (up) for Happiness. We get the good door prizes for our sacrifice.

This week, surrender feels like a lot of effort. Quieting the gloomy voice that’s constantly speaking to me is difficult — and, at times, it’s impossible. But, that’s what The Year of Happiness is all about. Being willing. Surrendering old stories and giving voice to new ones.

It’s crusade time. You in?

 

Photo courtesy of Ebay: http://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/GRAIL-CAT-spoof-funny-T-Shirt-Mens-6-sizes-8-colours-crusade-kitty-joke-/151276415654

 

 

The Party’s Over

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Photo Mar 28, 4 04 31 PM

It feels like I’ve been tripping on some terrific hallucinogens y’all.

Honestly. I have no idea what’s changed — why I’m reeling, but, I’ve jumped off and hit the deep end of my depression. And, let me tell you, someone strange has bounced back.

Birthdays have been known to do funky things to me. And, with my birthday arriving at the end of the week, I wonder if maybe that’s it. A sort of 30-something reckoning. But, whatever tipped the scales, I’m feeling it. And, it’s tugging at me like a million invisible strings, all pulling me toward something big.

Happiness. — I used to believe that it was a place and that we’d magically find ourselves.

It’s been an elusive destination. And, for a time, I was sure, feeling good was something we arrived at by chance. Our lives, like some fantastic cocktail party, when in struts Happiness making a grand entrance. She’s everything you’d want her to be, waving a tumbler of aged whiskey high above her head, rocking her skin-tight black dress, sporting ungodly-high-heels, flipping you off with her fire-engine-red nail polish. She was the perfect party girl — who lived only to disappear into the crowd, lost again, to the dance floor.

The truth is — that was me at my 25th birthday party. And, the party’s over.

Joy and happiness have never been the result of some effort on my part. It always found me. Unplanned and unreliable. Like a dog, three states away, finding it’s owner by some untold mystery of the universe. But, kids, I’m getting older. And, every time that dog gets away, it takes him longer and longer to find his way back to me again.

Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it isn’t. But, something’s flipped like a railroad switch. And, this time, I’m not leaving my happiness in the hands of chance.

    *           *           *

This blog has served me in a host of ways. It’s forced me to sit down and take stock of myself — every week. To write — regardless of who or where I am. It’s been an outlet for whatever I’ve bottled up to explode. It’s been a conduit for consistency over days, weeks, and years. And, it’s provided a vehicle for me to reach others in ways I never could have predicted.

I’ve connected with close friends, strangers, and mere acquaintances. I’ve heard countless stories and received unending love and support. I get emails that touch my soul, bring me to tears, and help me to hope and dream in a way I didn’t know I could. For these past 2 years, this window where I type 350-1000 words every week, without fail, has allowed me to reconnect with myself. And, this whole time, I think I was secretly waiting for the day when I would be moved to write this very post.

This blog is about to change, big-time, to reflect a new me. — Going forward, we’re letting a lot go.

I used to think if I let go of all the things, places, people, incidents, pain, and progress that I’ve lived through and with, in and before sobriety, I’d lose everything. — I’d be blank. But, in truth, no matter what place I write from, I’ll never have everything that I started with. I’m called to create something new, and in this place, I find myself with a different kind of power.

A proprietor of my own happiness, I have decided to put creation before chance. My goal in the coming year is to go beyond hoping. I have decided to facilitate the life that surrounds me. To change how I feel, because we, as humans, have that power. I aim to build a life where growth is no longer the side effect, but instead, the intention.

This year will be a year of happiness. And, for the next 365 days, that will be my only focus. This blog will, of course, continue to document my time. As readers, you can expect a change in tone. And, while I may lose a few of you, I know that in order for Saucy Sobriety to move forward, it must move with me — even if that means experimenting with something new. We’re moving away from the things that kept us stuck.

Signing off this week feels bittersweet. I’m leaving this comfortable space I’ve created, knowing that when I return next week, things will be different. But I am moved to change. I hope that you’ll change with me. — Sign on for it. Be a part of this — A year of happiness. 365 days. 52 weeks. Be inspired to ignite something new and different within yourself, too.

But, in whatever capacity, wherever I may find myself headed in hot pursuit of joy — I hope you will join me.

 

 

Photo: My 25th Birthday, Greenpoint, Brooklyn

While The Forgettin’s Good

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It still catches me off guard when I hear myself saying the words out loud. — “I don’t drink anymore.”

Like whoa.

It’s not the kind of thing you can say in passing. And this week, I found myself telling my “How I Got Sober Story,” twice. Friends and acquaintances find out that you’re sober and, immediately, they want to know more. How? and When? and Why? and Whyyyyyy? Sobriety is something that almost always requires an explanation. And, I do it. I explain. Not because I feel like an explanation is owed but because, to some, sobriety is this unthinkable, incomprehensible, impossibility. And, I feel obligated to dispel that notion.

Sometimes I forget I’m sober. I forget, I am the odd man out. And, maybe that’s the big-time-bonus after a long stretch of sobriety: Forgetting. — Forgetting everything.

While I played my tale of woe on repeat this week, for the first time, I felt something new. An astranged feeling — a disconnect. The cousin of insincerity, if you will. As the words left my mouth, I had to remind myself that those things that happened did, in fact, happen to me. I hardly recognize the woman in my own story. I don’t know how I ever knew her. It’s almost as if I couldn’t know her. — The small world where she used to live. The poor choices and the meager portions she allowed herself.

I think part of this revelation is, I’m no longer going to 12-Step meetings with regularity. So, I’ve been distanced from that narrative. A lot of rehashing goes on there. I’ve taken myself off the loop. And, after taking this big step back, I’m happy about deciding against wading into the murky lake that I once splashed around in with masochistic delight. My sorrow, these days, is watered by a different well. And, until this past week, I hadn’t taken the time to notice, much less appreciate, the big changes I’ve made.

I’m focused on my endgame. I forget to look around. This is why all those 12-Steppers were encouraging me to be consistent about meeting attendance. I need to be reminded. I need to remind others. And, on some level, that’s true. But, like most healthy relationships, breathing room is always a good idea. Truth be told, I think the space I’ve put between myself, my disease, and all that mea culpa-ing I was doing has allowed for this recent, rewarding reveal. I’m starting to discover that if I stop talking about being a mess. — I stop actually being a mess.

We all could stand to forget a thing or two. Our messes included. Go on, forget it! Forget the definitions we so rigidly create. Forget the people we hold accountable for so much of our pain. Forget the crap that still hurts.

Of course, we can’t forget everything. If we did, we couldn’t appreciate our big changes. We’d devalue our endgames. But, forgetting isn’t letting go. And, forgetting isn’t forever. — There’s always room for remembering. Later. We can put the pain aside and return to it later, with reverence. I promise. If we don’t make room for the new, good things, then the other things, sometimes the big things, slip through our fingers — not the least of which is time.

My sober story needs to be more present. Which, when I think about it, was always my goal. It’s important to remember how I got here, but, it’s also important to put away the things that don’t serve me anymore. It’s no longer about how I couldn’t hack it back then. It’s about now. It’s about what’s working.

It’s possible to tell your own story without throwing knives. It’s OK to make revisions. As the writer of your life, it’s a kindness that’s deserved. — Earned.

Next time I tell my “How I Got Sober Story,” it will be new and improved, rooted in the now. I’ve made some detailed mental notes. The first of which is: Just remember to forget — while the forgettin’s good.

 

 

 

 

 

In Stitches

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Braided_Crochet-1

My world seems so small.

Maybe it’s because there isn’t much happening. But, when I sit down and try to examine why that is, I keep returning to the same thing — in reality — a lot of things are happening.

I’m not a big-picture person. I have trouble backing up. I always find myself too close to the situation. I look at the fragments. And, that’s why, much of the time, I’m disappointed with myself. Disappointed with how things are going. I look at all the little failures and don’t manage to see how they play into everything else. I overlook how all those little missteps have led me to wonderful places that I wouldn’t have otherwise arrived.

Have you ever crocheted a blanket? If you look at one little crochet stitch — it isn’t much. But, after several thousand stitches, you end up with an afghan. Sure, it takes awhile. Yeah, you’ll likely end up pulling out three rows because you’ll notice that you fucked up with your counting a little too late. And, yes, by the time that blanket is done — you’ll be sick as fuck of looking at that same color. But, — you have something. Something big. Something tangible. Something to show for all your time and labor.

I run into problems when it comes to appreciating life’s afghans. I live in the process. The reward, for me, is in the making. Taking the little steps. And, once it’s all said and done, well — it’s all said and done.

Most of the time, I feel like I’ve got nothing to show for myself — no blanket. No payoff.

It feels like the work ahead of me couldn’t be in these little steps. These single stitches. I think that’s why the future feels so daunting. The work I’ve always assigned myself has been in stepping back and seeing the whole, big thing. Making grand decisions for some grand life. And, that’s got me in stitches. I don’t feel equipped. There’s no blanket. And, I want to know — when’s it all going to come together?

I’ve always felt that getting older meant that we had to let go of these small things. I thought we had to follow our little patterns — precisely — so that each row leads seamlessly to the next. And, we have to be very careful — because ripping out rows wastes precious time. But, the truth is, it’s in ripping out the rows that we learn to make the best blankets. Growth is in the repetition. Fuck-ups will happen. I try to remember — It wouldn’t be a genuine, handmade gift without a few little errors hidden somewhere in the chevron.

We eventually find ourselves in our different places — in our different ways. We must remember to occasionally step back, we must look at our work. But, we must also remember to do the work that’s right in front of us. The single stitch becomes the blanket.

It’s all about these little pieces.

I know. — I crochet.

 

 

With Our Bones

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Photo Jan 06, 4 37 51 AM

My coworker tells a red-faced customer that the New Year starts with our bones.

He is referencing the seasonable cold front that, only just now, has arrived in New York City. But, as I stare from the coffee shop window out onto the still-dark avenue, I think it’s possible his theory has nothing at all to do with the weather.

He’s right though, the New Year does start with our bones. And, after letting some heavy weight drop, I am left again — feeling empty. Just a feeble frame.

This feeling is a familiar one.

September 9, 2012. I stood in the center of my Portland living room. I remember staring with empty eyes at my black, cubed, IKEA bookshelf. I read the title off the spine of every book I owned.

It was my first day sober, and, I didn’t know what else to do. I could not sit or walk or make calls or cook or watch TV. Most importantly — I could not drink. I could only do this one thing — stare at my shelf full of books. And then, I sat on the stoop outside my tiny kitchen, my elbows pressed into my knees, and I smoked an entire pack of Parliaments. A lonely skeleton.

Days and weeks past. Then, months. Now, years. And, where substance is concerned — I am human again. I can see myself in the mirror without having a drink. I have created something. That old skeleton — a spine, made up once from those of my books and my rib cage, made up once from twenty premium cigarettes — is now covered with flesh. I made matter with which to cloak myself. And, with practice, I learned how to uncover meaning in my own assembly.

Meaning will come and go. But, one thing is sure — Time will always create new bodies for us to build. And I have come to believe, despite the hardship, it is important we continue the difficult work. Unending. Tedious. Painful. Slow. Rewarding. Beautiful. Unexpected. — Grace.

We sew our veins, organs, and muscles into place. We cover ourselves in this — our skin. Unique. Never again to be duplicated. We all start out with these bones. And, at the end, which is never really the end, we are something we weren’t before. Original in our effort. We are our own life’s work. — We become our willingness to begin.

In the New Year, cold descends. We feel it. The work commences.

It starts with our bones.

 

Everyday Love

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Love shows up in the strangest places.

It’s the Monday before Christmas and I’m walking down 3rd Avenue. I have a chesty cough and my chapped hand clings to a prescription for antibiotics.

“Bronchitis,” the doctor told me matter-of-factly after listening to one, heavy breath with his cold stethoscope pressed to my back. He wished me a “Merry Christmas” as he ushered me out of the exam room and into the hallway where he pulled another chart from the cracked, plastic bracket on the wall.  — They’re running out of room at the inn.

On the avenue, I let out a good, phlegm-y cough. My lungs loosen up, and suddenly, a good energy closes in on me. Bay Ridge shoppers scatter in every direction, colorful tubes of wrapping paper poking out from the tops of their over-sized shopping bags. A man in a JETS sweatshirt yells into his cellphone in a thick Brooklyn accent, “Whatddya mean, yous got the fuckin’ Star Wars pajamas? I just waited in line a fuckin’ hour for these fuckin’ things! Jesus Christ Lorraine.” He lets out a sigh, and then, he laughs and raises his right thumb and forefinger to his lips, taking a final pull off his cigarette before flicking it to the curb in an explosion of sparks. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

An Arab kid holds the door for me as I walk into Rite Aid on 78th Street, and, when I thank him, he tells me, “No problem lady. Don’t worry about it,” like he’s a member of the Rat Pack. In the line to pick up my prescription, there’s a toddler in a two-tiered stroller shoving Fruit Loops wildly into his face. He smiles at me, rainbow sludge oozing out of the corners of his mouth. I wave at him covertly and when he laughs his mother turns around to look at me suspiciously.

“What’s your last name, honey?” the pharmacy cashier asks me when I finally get to the front of the line. I tell her and she lets out a laugh like tires on gravel. “You Irish, you’ve got the craziest names! What’s your first name honey?” I don’t bother telling her it’s Scottish. “Sarah.” She hands me a white paper bag with a yellow sticker. “Feel better honey. Happy Holidays. Next in line, come on over honey!”

At the produce place on the corner of Ovington Avenue, I’m in line behind a Greek lady who buys four pints of peeled garlic cloves from the Chinese woman wearing blue, latex gloves. They both laugh, sharing some sort of inside joke. — And, I wonder what the fuck she’s planning on cooking, because whatever it is — I want some.

Suddenly, all these little things feel like something big. And, that’s how I know love is edging it’s way back into my life. It always begins with small, innocuous moments. Joy hidden in the bits and pieces of our humanity. I step back and observe it — my Brooklyn. I remind myself that I don’t have to be anything. I’ll just watch this beauty fall around me. And, it doesn’t mean I have to stay here, it just means I have to be here now.

Look. Customers sipping their coffee. My cat curled up on top of my feet. Listen. The murmur of my parent’s conversation downstairs. Sirens wailing out on their way to a fire. Breathe. Someone’s making pasta sauce and its aroma drifts through the window, out onto the street. The clean scent of the pine wreath my mother has fastened to the front door.

I haven’t bought a single gift. Depressed and bed ridden does not a good Christmas-shopper make. But, on the walk home, I convince myself that three days will be plenty of time. I don’t mind waiting in lines. Would you believe I like standing there, watching everyone else’s story unfold? Because, I do. — Especially when I am tired of replaying my own.

I arrive home and I find my mother has left apples out for me on the kitchen counter. She’s placed them neatly on a paper towel in front of the coffee pot.

Love isn’t always wrapped up under the tree.

It’s the kid who’s getting two pairs of Star Wars pajamas this year. It’s an Arab boy with the swagger of Frank Sinatra. It’s macerated Fruit Loops staining the corners of a shrewd toddler’s mouth — and it’s the mother who’ll fiercely protect him. It’s a cashier who calls everyone “Honey.” It’s a Greek lady with a fuck-ton of garlic and it’s a Chinese lady with blue gloves who knows something I don’t.

It’s making my way back home.

And, it’s finding apples waiting for me on the kitchen counter.

 

 

Artwork: “Apple Heart”; http://buhrena.deviantart.com/art/Apple-Heart-178646080