"Slow is Real, Fast is Not"

Yesterday I went to church at 5pm instead of in the morning. That gave me the opportunity to attend one of my favorite 12-step meetings, at 11am every Sunday at the Men's Home here in Alexandria, VA. It's a speaker's meeting with two speakers, and they also raffle off a free breakfast and other items. It's always a nice, lively bunch of people.

The second speaker told his story of being initially sober for six years. When he came into the program he thought that it would be some kind of "instant fix." He went through the steps quickly -- with halfhearted attention -- and attended meetings "when he had the time." Eventually he stopped going to meetings, had one Margarita with friends, and then drank for four more years. He has now been sober again for several years, attends meetings regularly, has a sponsor and works the program over and over again. His message was that, for him, miracles don't happen overnight. He has to work for them, and sometimes it's like trudging uphill every day. He ended his talk with a quote from someone he called Father Tom:

"Slow is real, fast is not."

I don't know Father Tom, but I agree with his statement. Whenever I try to do something quickly, I usually do a bad job of it, and end up re-doing it later. I have to stop, and force myself to slow down, and try not to be in a hurry. Why am I in a hurry, anyway? Because I want to get this thing done, so that I can do some other thing. I can be a disaster when it comes to something physical or mechanical. My husband repeatedly reminds me, "Don't force it!" when I try to get one thing to fit into another. He's right. Instead of figuring out why it doesn't fit, which takes time, I try to make it fit. I've also been guilty of multi-tasking -- for example, talking to a friend on the phone at the same time that I'm checking my email. You know what happens? I don't pay enough attention to my friend, and I mistakenly trash an important email message.

Doing this, doing that... it's like being on a treadmill. When I spent a blessed month in Father Martin's Ashley (i.e., rehab), I learned that I was a "human being" and not a "human doing." There are some things that need to be done at a certain time, but most of the things I need to do (or want to do) can be done at my own pace. So I try to slow down, to do one thing at a time, and pay attention to the thing I'm doing at that particular time.

I try to practice "mindfulness," which I also learned about at Father Martin's. Mindfulness can be defined as "a state of active, open attention on the present." Instead of letting life pass us by, mindfulness means living in the moment and awakening to experience. If I'm chopping vegetables for dinner, I take my time chopping them into the right sized pieces, and feel satisfied after doing a good job. If I'm working in the garden, I listen to the sounds of the birds, and feel the weight of the earth in my hands, and take my time planting and weeding -- instead of thinking about what I'm going to do tomorrow. If I'm taking a walk with my husband, I give him all my attention -- except for the part of me that needs to watch where I'm walking.

The phrase "Slow is real, fast is not" also applies to changing habits and learning new things -- especially when it comes to 12-step recovery programs. What we were doing before didn't work well for us, whatever it was. We need to learn how to do things differently -- how to identify "triggers," how to know which situations to avoid, how to substitute new and healthy habits for old unhealthy ones. We learn that "meeting-makers make it;" in other words, regular attendance at 12-step meetings helps us to stay on the right path. We learn that having a sponsor, and working the steps, help us to develop a new and solid program for living. We get rid of all the old baggage, one piece at a time, until it's all gone. We put it place certain safeguards, so that it doesn't come back.

All of these things take time. THERE IS NO INSTANT FIX.

Vacation

We just got back from spending five days at Ocean City, Maryland. It's a tacky sort of beach town that has amusement parks and video game arcades and a boardwalk. You walk past one shop after another selling ice cream and french fries and T-shirts and cover-ups and sunglasses and boogie boards and other sorts of beach paraphernalia. Most of the restaurants are pretty basic -- pizza, seafood, burgers and ribs. Most of the people are pretty basic too.


We stay right in the middle of the action at an old hotel that has a big front porch with rocking chairs that face the boardwalk. It's far from luxurious -- the beds sag in the middle and you don't get complimentary toiletries and the WIFI is temperamental -- but it's clean and friendly, it offers tea and coffee 24x7, and you can rent bicycles on the premises.

Why do I insist on a beach vacation at least once every summer? Why do I love it so? Why doesn't it feel like summer is complete without it? Partly because it reminds me of my childhood, and vacations that I took with my parents to similar beach towns -- Altantic City and Wildwood, New Jersey; Jones Beach and Coney Island, New York. My husband says that when I'm at the beach, I'm always 11 years old. But there are other reasons that "going to the beach" is a restorative thing to me, a thing that brings a smile to my face and a new spring to my step.

Wikipedia defines vacation  a leave of absence from a regular occupation. It further explains that "in today's digital society, vacationers may choose to unplug for all or portions of the time, thus separating themselves from the demands of constant digital communications." Yes, that's part of what I love about the beach. It's totally different from being at home. Most of my daily routine (except for early-morning 2-Step meetings) is totally changed. My "to do" list is ignored, and the temperamental WIFI at our hotel forces me to let my incoming email pile up and remain unread. I admit that I do post the occasional photo of a beautiful sunrise on Facebook, but no one's perfect. But ah, the beach. There's no place quite as relaxing, beautiful or pleasant to spend time without electronic gadgets.


^{The beach just makes me feel good. Sunshine is a great source of vitamin D, and my doctor says I need more of that.I've also read that the minerals in the ocean could help reduce symptoms for people with arthritis. According to a study, patients who spent time around salt water experienced fewer symptoms, like morning stiffness and trouble with hand gripping. You know what else can help relieve symptoms of arthritis? Getting enough vitamin D.}

We all tend to be happier in the brighter months of summer and less so in the gloomier months of winter, Sunshine CAN make us happier. A study conducted in Australia found that the amount of sunlight participants' received directly affected their mood, and had a positive effect on stress, sleep and appetite. I'm not claiming that a lack of beach time will lead to symptoms of depression, but I do believe that the beach has got a lot of what our bodies need, all in one beautiful place.

My beach vacation includes very little time actually sitting on the beach. When I'm at the beach, I love to walk. I mean LONG walks right along the exact place where the water and the sand meet. I look at the people on the sand, and the kids in the water, and the birds in the air, and the little airplanes pulling banners that say "TONITE 1/2 PRICE MARGARITAS. JOE'S BAR&GRILL." I think about old friends and good times, and tell my husband stories about my childhood. Before we know it we've walked to the end of the beach, so we turn around and walk all the way in the other direction. Long enough to get good and tired -- and usually sunburned.And if we're not walking, we're riding rented bikes up and down the boardwalk, and along the streets of the town. Sometimes the boardwalk is so crowded that it's a real challenge to avoid other riders, as well as skateboarders, walkers, and families with young kids who have rented surreys and don't have a clue how to drive them. But it's part of what we do at the beach, and our bodies appreciate the exercise. Besides, I have to work off all of the ice cream that I eat at the beach. Every day.

In some mysterious way, being at ocean is good for my mind and my spirit. We are all connected to water from the beginning of life.When I see or hear the ocean -- or any large body of water -- I feel calmer, and closer to God. Prayer and meditation come easier when I'm sitting on the porch, in a rocking chair, watching and hearing the waves break along the shoreline. I feel like I'm a part of everything -- and everything is a part of me.

The Near Side of God

During this morning's Twelve-Step Program meeting, the speaker talked about how relieved he was when he read Step Two: "We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity." He knew that he couldn't change himself because, even though he had stopped drinking for several years, he was still an angry and dissatisfied human being. He was no longer drinking, but he wasn't "sober." Step Two told him that there was a Higher Power that would help him -- all he had to do was to turn his will and life over to that Power. He did, and the positive result was obvious to us all.

When the speaker finished, he chose the topic of "Finding Your Higher Power" for the sharing part of the meeting. Several people shared their stories, including their individual perceptions of God "as they understood Him." Although I didn't have the opportunity to share at the meeting, I felt compelled to share it here.

When I was growing up, I learned about a God who is omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent:  all-powerful, all-knowing and everywhere. I still believe this, but I found it hard to develop a close and personal relationship with that kind of God. Then, two things I read changed everything.

The first thing was a book: The Shack, by William P Young. In this story the main character encounters a God that he can get "up close and personal" with. In fact, the God of this story is three persons, each one different from the other, but all somehow linked together. That's all I'm going to tell, because I don't want to spoil the story if you haven't read the book. I highly recommend it.

The second thing was a piece of Program-approved literature that spoke about "the near side of God." The author wrote about grappling with the concept of God, and concluded that God was essentially unknowable, but that He allowed us to approach him by showing us his "near side." That is the part of God that we can feel, that is close to us everywhere and all the time.

I still pray to and worship the God that is all-powerful, all-knowing and everywhere. But I have a close and personal relationship with the near side of God every day. He is always at my side. He laughs at me -- and sometimes with me -- when I think that I'm in control of things. He rolls his eyes when I say or do something totally foolish -- which I do more often than I care to admit. He helps me to turn away from temptation, but then He forgives me when I'm weak and sets me back on the right path. And He gives me a pat on the back when I do or say "the next right thing."

If you're reading this and willing to share your concept of God in the comments section, please do!

Reality is the Way Things Are

I keep lists on my phone. Lists of what I need to do, lists of what I want to do. Lists of places I'd like to go. Lists of books to read, lists of songs to download to my phone, lists of movies to order from Netflix. And I'm old enough to keep a list of my medications.

This morning I'm in the last row of seats on a Smithsonian bus to Reedville, where we will get on a boat to Tangier Island, in the south Chesapeake Bay. This has been on my list of places I want to go for quite some time. 
I just consulted the list called "Quotes" and picked one. It says "See reality as the way things are, not as you want them to be." That's an easy one to write about. It's my story.

When I was growing up as an only child in a working-class neighborhood of the Bronx,  my father told me that I could be anything I wanted to be, and do anything I wanted to do, if I tried hard enough. I believed him -- totally.

Working hard at school got me into the best high school. Working as a waitress on weekends and in the summers got me enough money to supplement my small scholarship to college. Graduating summa cum laude made it easy for me to be accepted into grad school. An advanced degree, good test scores and a lively interview got me hired into a Federal management intern program. Being good at what I did, learning a variety of disciplines and taking advantage of opportunities -- and being a woman in the right place at the right time -- helped me become an executive. Changing jobs from time to time kept things interesting. Retiring at age 55 with a full pension put me in a position of being able to just about anything I wanted, within reason.

While I was making all these things happen, I also lived a normal and happy personal life. I made -- and have kept -- many good friends. I  experienced the joys and heartbreaks of young love. I dated a variety of young men and married one before I even graduated from college. When we realized that we were growing in different directions, we divorced with relatively little pain. I jumped back into the free-wheeling social pool of the '70s with great abandon, and then found a wonderful man who I have now been married to for 36 years. We had no children by choice rather than by chance. We found and became members of a church that supports and sustains us. We were now both retired with adequate investments and a comfortable income, ready to travel and bike ride and explore new activities.

It was a wonderful life, almost perfect, that I had worked for and grasped and nurtured. Things were exactly the way they were supposed to be. ..... And then they weren't.

My body became uncooperative. I had pain, first in my neck and shoulders, later in my hip and lower back and leg. I had experienced health problems before during my near-perfect life. I could always get them fixed through medications or therapy or surgery. So I had surgery for my neck. It worked. I was fine again ... for a while. Then other pain, and a diagnosis of osteoarthritis, and the knowledge that it was progressive.

Pain got in the way of living my near-perfect life. Over-the-counter meds didn't help. I was afraid of narcotic meds because my mom "had trouble" with them. I was frustrated. I couldn't do things I wanted to do. I couldn't enjoy a number of daily activities. This was NOT the way things were supposed to be. I NEEDED it to be the way I wanted it to be.

When I finished my ritual glass of single malt Scotch before dinner, I felt a little better. Some days I had a second glass. Then most days. When I worked preparing food in the kitchen, standing, I hurt. A glass of wine on the counter started to appear. The glass was emptied and refilled. The same thing began when I worked on the computer. Over a relatively short period of time, I was starting the morning with whiskey in my coffee and ending the day with a shot from a hidden bottle. I stopped feeling my pain. But I also didn't feel much of anything else. I became devious about hiding bottles and making up stories about why I was stumbling over pieces of furniture. My world got quite narrow, and I drank because I drank. And then I began to black out, and fall down the stairs.

Reality was not what I wanted it to be. Reality was that I had unintentionally become an alcoholic in my pursuit of eliminating my pain. I had entered a new and even more painful reality.

A month in rehab and daily 12-step meetings ever since have taught me much about handling reality. The Serenity Prayer tells me "Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

I cannot change my condition. I cannot avoid growing older and all that comes with it. I can do whatever is healthy and reasonable to be the best I can be. I can do yoga and cardio and weight training to be a fit 63-year-old. I can investigate non-narcotic medications that address my pain. I can, through prayer and meditation, maintain a strong spiritual life. And I can share my story, to remind myself and, possibly, help others.

Postscript: I'm posting this after we return from Tangier Island. They proudly say that they now have wifi on the island, but I didn't try to find it.