Life is short.

Returning from my two-month summer book tour, I put a visit to my 21-year-old son at the top of the list. Matthew is living and learning to be a grown-up in New Haven, Connecticut, and the last time I saw him was in late June. The connection I have with my son is one of tender understanding. His struggle, his life views, his spirit, all touch me in powerful ways. He is the youngest. He bore the brunt of our family's dark years. As we hugged and parted yesterday, and he turned to walk back to his apartment, my eyes filled up with tears as they always do. I longed for a simpler time. I ached for a return to the carefree days of his early years, the laughter, the promise. I lingered in my car a few minutes until I could safely reset my thinking, and actually drive. Truth is, I am grateful that my son is alive, he is safe, he is learning to live a clean, honest life. I am grateful that I can pick up the phone and call him, text him, tell him I love him. Some people I know can no longer do that because their children have died. Still, a pervasive longing took hold of my heart as I made the 30-minute trip to my 90-year-old mother's home in Southington, Connecticut. I love my mom. We have made our peace. I no longer allow her to push my buttons. I am wise enough to know she won't be on this earthly plane forever. But my initial response to going to visit her was the usual one, "Okay, I'll stay an hour or so, and head home." But something occurred to me (and this was God's grace)---my mother loves me, longs for connection with me, the same way I hunger for it with and from my son. I called my mom from New Haven to tell her I was on my way. My mom suggested I spend the night. When I said, "Actually, mom, I was planning on it, and hoped that would be okay," I could almost hear and feel her joy over the line.

This thing called life is cyclical. What goes around comes around. What I crave from others, they crave from me. Time. Connection. Love. Understanding. I owe people my presence, my wholehearted attention. Today, I vow to linger longer with those I love.

Namaste.
Carol

Coming Home

Summer is winding down, and in a couple of days, I will drive the final few hundred coastal miles up Interstate 95, towards the East Greenwich, Rhode Island exit. I will aim my Ford Transit wagon (with the well-worn green peace sign on the hood) towards the familiar Hill and Harbor district, the vibrant downtown with my favorite coffee shop at one end, and my home on the third floor of the historic brick Masonic building. I will park in my spot with the number 3 stencil, and begin unloading empty boxes, camping gear, office supplies, and one suitcase. Phase one of my Linger Longer book tour will be over.  I will come home. I will breath a sigh of relief. I will eagerly resume and pour myself into my old life. Truth be told, nothing I have done in the past two months, over 13,000 domestic miles scares me more than coming home.

I'm not bringing me home. I look the same. I talk and laugh the same. But if you look into my eyes, you will not find the old me. Don't be surprised if what you see instead is every cloud, star, wave, sun and moonbeam that held me tenderly. They filled me. They caused my heart to swell. My capacity for love expanded in ways I never knew possible or available. My ego took a backseat, and humility was forged, pure and simple, as I relied on the kindnesses of strangers to answer questions, maintain my vehicle, welcome me into their homes, buy my work, and share history lessons I never would have gotten in a book.

In the first few days and weeks, I will seek out and receive soft landings. I will bend down and wait for my sweet son to kiss me atop the head (our special greeting). I will pull into my mom's driveway and linger over a cup of coffee and some toast. I will hold my precious granddaughter and inhale her sweet smells. I will hug all three of my children tightly and hope they can feel the depth of my love and understand my longing. I will meet old friends for coffee and meals and we will laugh heartedly again. I will rejoin my early morning fellowship in Providence and let them welcome me back into their fold.

I will come home. I must. My only nephew will tie the knot in September. We will christen the baby in early October. I must appeal the Town of East Greenwich's sanction against participating in Airbnb's sharing economy, and take my condo association to task.

But like pages torn from a book, I'm not sure mine can ever be reassembled, made whole again in the same old way. Intuitively, I suspect that those chapters, that book, must be set aside now. I pray for the courage, knowledge, and sustenance to begin the next new volume.

Namaste.

Carol

Practice Presence.

On a recent road trip, I swapped stories with six other sober women as we wound our way south, out of Rhode Island, to New Jersey for a regional service assembly. Some of us have known each other for years; some of us were getting acquainted for the first time. Invariably, the conversations turned to livelihood, life, and balance, and I was happy to share some details about my creative life (I don't call it work.) One friend has a pent-up desire to write; she is talented enough to be a participant in a locally respected writing program, but she can't seem to find the time to write. Time. How many essays, poems, novels, and memoirs have gone to the grave, stories untold, musical scores unorchestrated, canvases left blank, because the writer/composer/artist thought she lacked time? You have time. Trust me. All it takes is practice.

Before I leave my apartment every morning at 6:30, I sit and meditate for five minutes. Five minutes may not seem like a significant slice of time, but over time, my practice has deepened, and has had a profound effect on my ability to be, peacefully, in the world. 

I write everyday. Coined Morning Pages by Julia Cameron, author of The Artist's Way, I scribble three pages, longhand, on a pad. I don't worry about punctuation, spelling, or grammar. This writing is not for anyone else's eyes, but by laying down tracks everyday, I give writing a place of honor in my life.  Divinely given, who am I to deny it?

I save a few dollars every week. At the top of my home budget/spreadsheet, I have a line item for savings. Allocating funds is non-negotiable. My mortgage and utility bills get paid, and my savings account receives a percentage of my weekly earnings.  

Thus, I practice meditating. I practice writing. I practice saving money.

The upshot of showing up for my breath every morning, the benefit of showing up for the muse daily, the financial rewards for setting aside a little, is that by practicing, by becoming a better mediator, I am less judgmental. By practicing writing a weekly blog, I have become a more consistent writer. And by saving money, I am less fearful about my financial future.

Practice doesn't mean perfection, it means being fully present in the world.

Fall In Love.

I learned a lot about love last year. I learned that my love of self has to come first, that in order to find love, I have to give love. I learned that my love can't save anyone. No matter how much I love other sick and suffering people, I can't want their wellness more than they do.

I fell in love over and over again last year. I took a 30-day, solo, cross country trip around the country, and each time I checked in to a new room for the night, I fell in love. I fell in love with my hosts, their families; I fell in love with the people at meetings in halls, and church basements; I fell in love with the hills, valleys, mountains, oceans, lakes, and mesas of this great country.

And I fell even more deeply in love with myself, with my courage, my strength, my laugh, my heart, my mind, my God.

So, it matters little this year that I don't have one person in my life to love. I have hundreds of men and women all over the country to love, and they, blessedly, love me back. If you are in a relationship, love deeper. Dig in. Let go of your petty resentments. Something missing? Try providing it instead of waiting for it.

This Valentine's weekend, instead of sitting home, feeling sorry for myself that a relationship ended last year, and another one crashed and burned on take off earlier this year, I am picking up carnations, donated by a local grocer, signing dozens of my Earth's School of Love greeting cards, and joyously distributing all these to the residents of long-term care at a nursing home in town.

You taught me that to keep my sobriety, I have to give it away. It works the same way with love.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone ~ <3 ~

Live and Let Live

Over the years I have learned some valuable interpersonal skills. One of those tools, and the one I use the most is, "Don't pick up the rope." Another favorite encourages, "Restraint of pen and tongue." The goal for me, as a recovering woman, is to maintain emotional balance. I can't do that if I show up for every fight I'm invited to. Truth be told, I rarely get invited into other people's drama these days, and I am grateful that I surround myself with people who'd rather do the right thing the first time, than have to go back and make an amend later for misbehavior.

This morning, however, I came face-to-face, literally, with a bully, a retired woman who lives, with her husband, in my apartment building in Rhode Island. I like this woman. We have broken bread together. We have shared intimate facts about each other's lives. I believe she is a good woman and strives to lead a peaceful life. But this morning, she came out shooting bullets because I chose to leave my car parked in our lot rather than move it to a municipal lot up off of the perilously steep Church Street. Normally, I would have been long gone by 6:30 am, and well on my way to my home group in Providence, but due to the parking ban in the city, the meeting was cancelled.

When the private plow driver arrived, I offered to move my car into the first available plowed section of the lot. No problem. Within minutes, the young driver made a few efficient passes, gave me the thumbs up to slide my car over so he could finish his task, and story over. Not. My neighbor stomped out, finger-pointing, shouting, and commanded me to move my car to the municipal lot. I managed, for the next several minutes, to stand my ground, continue cleaning off my car, and patiently wait for her to blow off her steam. The last thing she said to me, after conferring for several minutes with the plow driver was, "We will send YOU the bill for the extra time this is taking." I wanted to say, "It was YOU who just bent this guy's ear for five minutes. I'm part of the solution, not the problem." I didn't. I minded my own business, and she finally went back inside.

It's raining now. What little snow we got, the thing that precipitated the whole episode in the first place, is becoming slushy. Plows are the only vehicles attempting to navigate the treacherous Church Street. At some point, in the days ahead, I will formulate a clear, level-headed response to the parking and snow removal matter out back. For today, however, I am grateful that recovery has given me valuable tools for consensus-building rather than bullying and forced compliance.

Saying "Yes."

Towards the end of my drinking, "No," was my standard response to invitations, opportunities, and life itself. Locked into my own dark and tormented world of spiritual decay, I was incapable of participating in the joy, the magic, the beauty around me. The outer vestiges of my life still looked good. The beds were made. The kids had clean clothes. Groceries got delivered (thanks, blessedly, to PeaPod). Luxury cars lined the driveway. We still took fancy vacations. A ceramic plaque hung above the hearth of our sprawling Colonial, "A mother's love is the heart of the home." Regrettably, this mother's heart had shut down years before. I went through enough motions to make you think everything was fine, but inside I was an empty shell. Serve the world? I'd throw money at a cause, but give of myself, my time, my energy? Never.

New England experienced a snowstorm this week, and while it never quite reached the epic proportions predicted, the Northeaster did drop at least a foot of snow and higher drifts. Scrolling through Facebook the day before the storm, I came upon a link for an organization, Serve Rhode Island. The headline read, "Hundreds of volunteers needed to shovel." Curious, I clicked on it, and decided to add my name to the list of volunteers willing to help the community's elderly and health-challenged residents. I graciously submitted to a background check, and by the end of the day, I received an email notifying me that I had been selected. I received my marching orders and drove enthusiastically out to Coventry not knowing what to expect. I discovered a disabled, arthritic woman, a cancer survivor, a woman perhaps younger than myself. When she came to the door to greet me, she looked past me and asked, "Do you have help?" I laughed out loud and pointed to my shovel. Half-way into the job, an entrepreneurial plow driver and his assistant stopped and offered to "finish the job for twenty dollars." When I explained that I was just a volunteer, doing it for free, they both looked at me quizzically, smiled, and went on their way.

My neighbor came to the door a half-dozen times, expressing concern for me, my safety, my heart, offering me water. When I was all finished, and pretty proud of the wide swath I had cleared for her to get her car out,  I thanked her. I explained that by asking for help, she gave me and countless other volunteers the chance to be useful, to provide a service. We exchanged phone numbers like good neighbors sometimes do.

I won't lie. The snow was light at first, and my movements were swift, but as I got closer to the curb where the plows had mounded several feet of wet, slushy snow, the work got tougher. By the time I got back to my car to await my next assignment, I was flushed, but grateful that at sixty years old, I am strong in body, mind, and spirit, and that I have learned to give an enthusiastic, "Yes," a hearty thumbs-up, to life.

Fully Present

Hi, everybody. I am writing this blog post from the Wired Lounge at Kripalu Center for Yoga & Health in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Management, and presumably the majority of guests staying in the dormitories and private rooms here, frown on the use of portable electronic devices. For me, however, the retreat experience has less to do with yoga and Swami Kripalu than it does with meditation, contemplation, and the creative process that inherently springs forth from such mindfulness. Here I sit, with a few other kindred spirits, creating an experience that works for me. Part of the R & R experience this weekend, unlike a typical speaker program, has been to participate (or not) in certain group activities such as lectures, hikes, meals, and classes. I have done none of the above. My purpose in booking this last-minute retreat was to garner some reflective time in a safe, nurturing place without breaking the bank. Kripalu's guests are graced with a sauna, whirlpool, healing arts, great food, and expansive grounds. At 6:00 this morning, I signed up for a 9:30, two-hour, intermediate, roundtrip hike along Kripalu's extensive trail network. Within an hour of our departure time, snow was falling heavily and the fog had settled in around the base of the mountain. The weather didn't necessarily dissuade me, but the thought of trooping around with a group of hikers did, and I felt my enthusiasm waning. I'd promised myself I'd do a few things this weekend: I'd use the sauna and whirlpool, I'd consider getting a massage if the price was affordable, read, take some photographs, hike. The hike was the last promise, and I knew that if I blew it off,  I'd feel I cheated myself. It occurred to me that I could still go on a hike (this isn't my first time here), solo. I went back to my room, donned my long Johns, my flannel socks, ski pants, vest, hat, boots, and in a flash I was transported back to weekends I used to spend with my young family in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Dressing for a day on the slopes was an intense affair, one that involved layers of clothing, equipment, arguments, tears, and work. (At least my dry drunk self invariably viewed it as work.) Today, of course, I realize that I didn't know what I didn't know back then, and I squandered away some mighty fine opportunities. As I slipped effortlessly into all my winter gear this morning, I thought back to those winter weekends at Waterville Valley, those two youngsters who are all grown up and chasing lives of their own now, and I smiled, because even though I can't change the past, I am fully present for today.