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The rain has moved out for a few days. It was no surprise to hear this was the wettest February on record. I have the mud on the kitchen floor to prove it. No matter how often I mop, our fur babies seem to require “outside” duties immediately after I clean the floor. I really hope it dries out soon.

Last Friday would’ve been my Mom’s 88th birthday. I had a moment in that morning. I pulled out my phone to call and wish her happy birthday. Then it hit me: I couldn’t. Grief comes in strange and unpredictable waves. Even though it’s been several months, it still comes and goes. I know it will be the same with my friend Jim. February simply isn’t on the Top Ten list of my favorite months. Thank God it’s over…

I was out on the porch, reminiscing about Mom and Dad this morning. Dad passed in 2002 and I still think of him often. I’ve heard many horror stories of extreme dysfunctional family life over the years: abuse, neglect, and alcoholic or addicted parents. It breaks my heart to hear them. I was adopted and my earliest memories are of my parents telling me how much they loved me and desired me. Such terrible tales simply aren’t my story. Later in life, my memories are of the pain my addiction caused them and how they loved me anyway. In both cases I count myself blessed. Not everyone can say that…

I’m eternally grateful for the two people who became my parents and in many ways, for my birth mother who gave me up for adoption. When I was born in 1958, Eisenhower was President, rock & roll was probably the cause of all societal ills, and good girls didn’t have babies out of wedlock. Abortion wasn’t legal and adoption was the option “good” families chose for their daughters. I know very little about my birth mother. I do know she was 16 when I was born, so it’s likely they sent her off to the VOA to live out her pregnancy. Such things should be hidden from polite society. 

I’d like to think giving me up was one of the hardest things she ever did. I’ve talked to women who have given up children for adoption. They’ve all shared about how they think about them: especially on their birthdays. I’d like to think she still thinks of me. Though Mom and Dad are, without question, my parents, there’s still this lingering question about my biological mother. I guess it hasn’t been pressing enough to do the work necessary for the answers. Yet. However, I sometimes wonder if there are half-brothers and half-sisters out there that share the same DNA…

I suppose there’s a bit of grief in all that as well: a Mom and Dad who loved me and a birth mother I never even knew. Grief knows no time limits. Grief comes in some strange and often unrealistic ways. And sometimes, grief shows up in what could’ve been. No matter how it comes, real or imagined, it has to be felt, dealt with, and walked through. I’m just grateful it doesn’t have to be walked through alone.

It’s the last day of February. I’m not sure if there’s a technical term for it, but tomorrow is my first day of Spring. They have “meteorological Spring” whatever that is. Then there’s the true start of Spring, the equinox. I’m just going to claim March 1st as my start of Spring. I never was very good at waiting after the long month of February…

The porch was a little wet this morning. I don’t know whether it’s from an overnight storm or just the thickness of the humidity in the air. So, I found a semi-dry spot to rest my feet and, like Margaret likes to say, “I had coffee with God”. I talked with my Higher Power for a bit and really tried to listen, but the day’s “to do” list kept creeping in, making it difficult. I’m better at quieting my mind and listening, but I realize I have a long way to go when it comes to being an active listener, whether it be in personal relationships or spiritual matters.

As many of you know, grace and desperation brought me to recovery rooms a little over twelve years ago. One of the promises given to me was that if I followed the suggestions of those who were farther down the road, I would have a spiritual awakening. My life would be transformed as a result of that awakening because I know longer sought to do things my way and act on my will: which always brought pain, failure, and conflict with others. Instead, I would seek out God’s will, let that Higher Power lead me down the path, and find a degree of  happiness, joy, and freedom. Over the last twelve years, that awakening, that transformation has happened in my life and for that I’m truly grateful.

The deeper the awakening though, the more I realize I suffer from spiritual narcolepsy. I get tired or simply complacent. All the old thoughts creep in and I become hard-headed, unwilling to listen, and difficult to be around. “They” become the problem and I slip back into “terminal uniqueness”. The spiritual naps have gotten shorter but they haven’t gone away by any means. And I still have that rebellious streak…

And now that you have a little background I hope you’ll stick around for the rest of the story. I’m not as unique as I thought, nor does being “awakened” mean I have a better handle on the journey. I just travelling down the road and I hope we can walk together…

I walked into a meeting Saturday afternoon and the rain had just stopped. When I walked out an hour later I saw something I hadn’t seem in almost two weeks: sunshine! Those of you who live elsewhere might not get the significance of the moment. Nine days of rain, most of it heavy, gets pretty oppressive to one’s spirit. I spent more time mopping up after our dogs than I did working. That gets old. Real quick…

In true Texas fashion, the rain stopped, that sun came out, and we’re looking at seventy degrees today. It might even be dry enough to finally rid myself of the horse manure that’s been sitting in my truck bed for the last week and a half! I’m sure our neighbors will appreciate that. But that’s another story…

I generally try to be upbeat in my posts. Encouragement and expressions of gratitude have their place. We need more of them. But that wouldn’t be completely realistic. You see, I’ve come to learn that sometimes life is much like the weather. Sometimes my attitudes and thinking get clouded by long periods of nasty weather. Then the sun comes out. The light stuns me with awe. The grass is a little greener than it was a couple of weeks ago. The Amaryllis is starting the bloom in the backyard. Buds begin to appear that weren’t there before the rain. Life is full of new opportunities.

Perhaps more importantly, the light exposes some outdated and outmoded thinking. It’s a reminder that maybe it’s time to take another look at where I am and where I want to be. How can I love people better? How can I be a better husband, father , and grandfather? How can I be a better man? How can I be a real disciple of the Rabbi I claim to follow? How can I share in creation; especially in creating a better place around me? I don’t even know what’s good for me half the time…

I’m thankful for a power greater than me, the one I call God, that leads me to answer some of those questions. That requires a degree of honesty that really doesn’t feel that great; especially in public. I’ve learned I’m just not that unique. So maybe there are other to share the path with. Maybe you too, gentle reader, can relate to some of the story. I’ll keep you posted…

I’m a little late getting things going this morning. I had a dental appointment at 7:00 AM and it through off the routine. Not only did I have to face my dentist phobia; I can’t have anything hot, which means no coffee. You’ll understand if I seem a little incoherent…

As I grow older I realize how much I’ve become a creature of habit. Bedtime almost always corresponds with the ten o’clock news. Now that my work is no longer dependent on the weather, I count myself lucky to make it through the whole program. I wake up at the same time every morning, enjoy my coffee and some quiet time on the porch, and eventually find my way to the desk. Either at lunch or in the evening, I make time for three or four recovery meetings a week. There may be minor variations, but it’s always roughly the same.

I used to think my Mom and Dad boring. I’m sure the outsiders looking into my life would say the same thing, but I don’t care about that as much as I used to. One of my favorite writers, Robert Fulghum, talks about going out to get the mail “in an old bathrobe and fuzzy slippers” and just not caring what the neighbors think. He says that some call it “going to seed”. He prefers to think of it as the “beginning of wisdom”. I prefer his version. Maybe I’m getting there…

They say sixty’s not old, and they’re right. I’m not sure it’s the “new forty” and even if it were, I’m not sure I’d want to be forty again. I was almost fifty before I came into recovery and spent the previous years holding God and others at bay. I’m not anxious to repeat those previous years.

My goals values have changed a lot in the last twelve years. Making money isn’t as important and all consuming as it was when I was younger. Work will still be here tomorrow but the people I love might not. I don’t want to shirk my responsibilities, but I want to make time and be grateful for the people in my life. I believe that’s the wiser choice. If that seems boring, then so be it.