We were children on country nights, scheming in the yellow glow of the porch light
Despite dares and taunts, we knew better than to chance the dark alone
So we bunched up, took deep breaths, and braved the night together, for games of Ghost in the Graveyard and Kick the Can
We’re grown-ups now, taught to set aside childish things
No thrills in tin cans or laughing at ghosts
And we forget to find friends when the darkness comes
Photo by Bruce Savadow
Let’s settle this God thing once and for all.
God, or no God?
Who on earth knows?
Any proof, either way?
None, except for Bach, foxes, forgiveness, elephants, bulbs and my dog Lily, may she rest in peace. Also, the fact that someone like me could have 28 years without alcohol or the non-habit-forming marijuana I smoked on a daily basis for 15 years. Also, ripe peaches, books, and Mr. Rogers.
There is Infinite good and beauty and heroism and artistic genius everywhere we look. Is this proof of God?
No, because there is also infinite evil and madness. I am not going to name names.
What do we even mean when we use the word “God?”
For the sake of argument, let’s say we mean a Higher Power–a power greater than our thinky thoughts, good ideas, grudges, positions and opinions: a divine Mind, a benevolent intelligence of some sort, some kind of bankable Love energy. Something that hears us and cares, when we cry out in our pain and mortification. I also like the Deteriorata’s definition of God as the Cosmic Muffin.
But what if the most illustrious atheists and agnostics hear that we actually believe this?
It’s none of your business what they think. To plagiarize from my book, it is like worrying about some guy wandering around the Mojave in a wet suit, reciting the poetry of Edgar A. Guest. People get to think and believe what they think and believe. You will never change them, or they us. Surrender: lay your weapons down. Let me make you a nice cup of tea.
What if they say you are ignorant, and a danger, in public?
It would have nothing to do with you. Maybe they are having trouble at work, or a spastic colon.
So do you actually believe that the soul is eternal? That death is just the end of dying, not of life?
Yes. Also, that there is a dessert section in heaven, and that it in fact makes up most of heaven, except for the ponds, and gift shop.
But we still die, correct?
Of course, and the question we ask ourselves, is, How do we live in the face of that? How alive are we willing to be? Why do we keep hitting the snooze button? What will it take for us to stop squandering our time?
Well? What’s the answer? What does it take to get serious about this life we’ve been given, even if we don’t know if God gave it to us, or chance?
Usually either a terminal illness or a DUI.
Is it legal to believe in evolution and all aspects of modern physics, yet also believe in a personal god, a Beloved, a sacred dimension to our lives?
Yes, in some states.
I shared this without consent of Ms. Lomotte, but she’s a really cool woman so I hope she won’t mind. And it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
I am startled
It’s the same jolt I would feel if you snuck up behind me.
It’s not your sudden presence that makes me flinch, but the absence, forever absence
Grief isn’t overcoming me in waves, leaving moments between surges to gasp for air
Like some warped science experiment, it’s forcing me to relive the shock. Im afraid to breathe
Again and again I hear the sudden news that you are gone — forever.
You passed away, you transcended, you’re with God now
Comforting words, they feel like a trick, setting me up for the next bolt of pain
You are dead. I say the words out loud and fumble for acceptance, while my hand longs for the phone
I need to talk to you; we weren’t finished, not even close
I love you, I’m proud of you, you don’t have to be afraid, be kind to yourself, you made me a better person, we can work anything out
The flinch snaps my head back; a sharp pain travels from my eyes through my face into my shoulders and chest. It leaves me nauseous.
I’ve lost you again
I would much prefer the waves
The back home area code was curious, then your mom’s voice, which I hadn’t heard in more than 20 years.
People like us protect ourselves with a skill tested under fire: denial. As quick as a fright it clicked into place, like armor, when your mom said you were in the hospital. That’s not unexpected, but I’m sure she’s fine, I thought, ignoring distress signals from my brain.
“It doesn’t look like she’s going to make it.”
A jolt like Everclear blurred everything. You are on life support. Our shared peril will not bind us for much longer. Oh, my friend, why didn’t you call, like so many times before, before succumbing to the cunning, baffling, powerful demon that possesses us.
You always ask, brightly, genuinely, How are you doing? How’s you’re beautiful wife? You listen. And you are gracious enough to allow me to listen, to suffer with you, as you suffer with me.
Our conversations are open and raw and challenging. And I hope healing. Together we have clung to sobriety, shared parenting advice, cooled one another’s anguish, gushed about children and voiced our deepest fears. Mostly we laughed.
Over the past year there has been a quiver in your voice — fear, desperation, even panic. Every time we talked I reminded you that none of us has to do this alone. Many people want to help. As always you apologized for bothering me. As always I told you to stop. And as always you told me over and over how good a friend I was, that you know I will never turn my back or judge. You said you appreciate that I am a straight shooter who tells you the truth even if it isn’t what you want to hear.
I am looking at a photo, you know the one, our handful of high school friends, arm in arm, smiling into the camera, just after graduation. Often, people look back at photos like this and wonder, What was I thinking at that moment? I don’t have to wonder. I had firm plans for later that night, to get drunk for the first time in my life. It had dominated my thoughts all day. It would dominate my life for the next 23 years.
You don’t seem to remember that I was a drunken disaster that first year at college, it was you who never judged or turned your back, no matter how belligerent or sloppy I was. You were the straight shooter, giving me the honesty I needed. You accepted apology after apology and took care of me when I passed out on your couch. Then, the next morning, you forgave me again.
So I am sorry, so very sorry for what I put you through. I am fortunate that you are my friend. I can’t say it enough; you have done so much for me.
A couple of decades later I stopped drinking, or more accurately, many people helped me stop. Not long after that, you courageously called and through tears asked me how I did it. I introduced you to a lot of people who fell in love with you and helped you do the same.
You have struggled so much with this. It certainly hasn’t helped that along the way some people you cared about have hurt and betrayed you, but you kept trying against all odds. You have never stopped fighting a terminal disease, praying for the remission that I have today, a remission with no guarantees. Through it all you never stopped loving. Loving with the passion of a great romantic poet– your children, your parents, your sister, family and friends. I’m honored to be on this list. And we all love you in return.
In our talks you told me that you felt like a failure, unworthy of the love of so many people. Especially during relapse. I tried gentleness. I tried the raised voice of a coach. I begged you to see what I see, what we all see. I shook you from 2,000 miles away, trying to make you understand. Like a child, you asked if I was mad. Please, always know, as I have told you countless times before, that is an impossibllity. You recently called me at 3am and asked me if you were calling too late. Of course you were. Not because you woke me, but because I was worried that you were up at that time. In our previous phone call we had joked about how nothing good happens after two in the morning.
Dearest friend, once, following a relapse, you wept and told me that you had thrown away all the time that you had been sober.
I’m going to say this again, for what appears to be the final time. Not only no, but hell no! You are wrong. Those moments, hours, days, months, years all counted. They mattered. The measure of your courage is how you continued to pull yourself up in the lonely darkness of despair.
We never had a chance against addiction until we surrendered and admitted we were powerless. Harper Lee, the author of “To Kill a Mockingbird,” a novel we both love, said, “Real courage is when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.” Regardless of what this disease made you believe, you are courageous.
Today, my dear friend, I am suffering mightily. I am not “handling this,” as some might say.
I wish you had called. I would have asked you to rest and let me carry your burden for a while. I would have told you to stop apologizing. I would have told you that you have helped me as much as I help you. We have been in this together for a long time. I would have said once again that I could never be mad at you. I would have told you not to be afraid.
I would have said I love you.
I told our mutual friend yesterday that I feel like I’m driving without a steering wheel, veering between weeping and some facsimile of composure. Of course, you know that she told me to talk to my sponsor. Risking reprimand, I told her I don’t have one right now, haven’t even been going to meetings much. I have, however, attended regular meetings since the heartbreaking phone call from your mom. I don’t speak up much because I’m not sure I can hold it together. I think I’ve been looking for answers but I leave puzzled and angry.
I met a man recently who told me about a philosophy exam he took in college. He was confronted with an essay question that simply asked, “Why?” He answered, “Why not?” and walked out (He received an A).
That is my question right now. Why not me instead of you? To say I am blessed by God implies that you are not. For me that is personal heresy.
In recovery we talk a lot about accepting life on life’s terms. I have a feeling I will be trying to renegotiate these terms for some time. I weep not for my loss but rather for the loneliness of those days before your family found you.
When your mom called she said she knows I understand. Honestly, I think at best I know that you have come to this place through no fault of your own. You came here at the end of a brutal, terrifying, lifelong battle against a disease that most of us don’t survive.
But understand? Today, more than ever, I must admit, I don’t think I will ever understand this disease.
Handcuffs Hurt 