I woke up 18 months ago on this day, the 21st of the month, and knew a radical change in my life was necessary. Still, as usual, I procrastinated. A slow three weeks later, I eventually stepped into a sobriety room and saw him sitting in the front row. His eyes sparkled clear-clear blue, a soft translucent color that looked into you with compassion.
His build was slight and he dressed meticulously even if mostly he wandered into the room in clean blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Not quite balding, he sported a short army buzz cut for peppered grey hair. Despite a red-tipped nose, he appeared handsome for a man probably in his 70s. He was careful with his appearance and with his words. When he spoke, the room of thirty, forty, or fifty folks–whatever size we were that particular evening 6 p.m. on Saturday after Saturday–sat still, listening, absorbing, and learning.
If I remember right he had around 25 years of sobriety and he would share that strength in specific stories. Each one would recount a person’s miraculous transformation from drinking to not drinking by the grace of something, somewhere, and somehow. He called this down-to-earth spirituality. He claimed that just sitting next to someone could heal. Or walking with them to grab a cup of coffee and listening. He listened so well in the rooms. Every meeting he would stay after and fix those cystal clear eyes on the person who needed to talk.
Over indulging in any extreme behavior is a type of insanity that the world suffers from in spades today. This gentle man reminded us all of the specific wording in Step Two that people suffering from extreme behavior might grow to believe that a power greater than ourselves, could restore us to sanity. He would highlight that the suggestion is not to discover a power in which to believe but just to spark enough curiosity that such spiritual magic might exist in the world. I believe. In my own life, serendipity has been playfully at work all my adult life–when I am present enough to notice.
Today this kind man, who presented me with so many supportive, careful words when I first grew to know him, passed away comfortably in a hospice in the Castro. Funny twist that this same hospice used to remain packed with AIDS patients and today an ordinary straight man chose to die there rather than a hospital.
And the woman who mentors me in sobriety lost her mother a few weeks ago. Death clarifies. If I knew I only had a short time left, I’d stock the freezer with ice cream, rent my favorite films, and invite those who I love over to watch films and over indulge in sweets. I have made a pile of amends, so I’m decently spiritually free, but probably would need to repeat some just to clean the slate for sure. Alright, alright, I’d also throw in freshly home-made popcorn done on the stove top. Anybody ever do that any more or did this comforting ritual to share with family die away?
In a way, 2009 was so much about passing away. By experiencing intense loss, all those little new births can happen. That’s how 2010 feels so far. By witnessing others leave the earth, I celebrate each and every day, sweeping dusty bull-shit behavior out the front door. I have been cleaning house and the furniture is starting to have that shiny glow, a clear reflection, maybe a touch similar to the clarity I saw in my friend’s eyes when he stared at me. He’s gone for good, but I’ll always carry his compassionate spirit with me–what a blessing and a gift.
Posted by karolinawrites 