Keeping the Plates Spinning, OR, When the Other Shoe Drops

"Once you're a parent, you're the ghost of your children's future." ~ Joe Cooper, Interstellar

Years ago there were programs on television called variety shows. These would showcase various talent from around the world - acrobats, comedians, opera singers, pop singers, Broadway stars, rock groups, animal acts - you never knew what you'd be treated to each week. The closest thing we have to the old variety shows is the Got Talent franchise. I am captivated when a novelty act progresses through to the late stages of these competitions. We are all witnesses to something special as these quirky artists pursue dreams against the longest of odds.

Growing up my favorite of these unconventional variety show performers were the plate spinners. Google this along with the song "Sabre Dance" which these men and women would often choose as accompaniment to their frenetic presentations. The goal was to spin as many plates or bowls as possible on long sticks while at some point also ending the act by gracefully catching each as they fell, moving from one stick after another, normally from right to left or left to right in order, miraculously, hopefully, without breaking anything. Often, to complicate things there would be plates spinning on tables and other kitchen-utensil-related perpetual motion distractions to make us think the hero of the insanity would take his or her eye off the ball, I mean ... plate.

Every now and then a plate would fall proving the person on stage was human after all. We would share in the victory of all or most plates spinning and gently being returned to a state of rest. We would breathe a collective sigh of relief that could be felt around the country.

Years have passed and we no longer see many of these intrepid overly-practiced entertainers. I have found YouTube videos of Chinese plate spinners including one who performs by standing (rolling) on what looks like an oversized fitness ball, as if keeping 6 to 8 plates spinning at one time isn't hard enough. Though the plate spinning act may be a thing of the past, the image remains burned in our collective national psyche and has even become part of our lexicon:

"I can't meet you for lunch today, I've got too many plates spinning."

As our children progress through the various stages of addiction and recovery we can have innumerable plates spinning at one time: the rehab plate, the walking on eggshells in your own house plate, the family budget plate, the detachment with anger plate, the detachment with love plate, the trust plate, the hope plate, the expectation plate - that's just 8 plates, and there's more.

Too often, some plates don't even make it to the stage much less to any part of our performance as parents of addicts or addicts in recovery. Boxed up or perhaps on deck for a spin when time permits, these plates are kept protected from possible damage, remaining in the perfect state as we remember them before The Addiction took over our lives.

Two of these plates are our relationship with our most significant others, and our responsibilities and connection to the siblings of the addict.

Let's focus today on those siblings whose lives were turned upside down by the entrance of The Addiction into our households.

With so many plates spinning we run the risk of taking our eyes off those who are indirectly impacted by The Addiction. We become so naturally and rightfully focused on our babies whose lives are at risk we wrongfully assume their brothers and sisters will see how falling into the addition vortex can ruin lives. We hold our other children to a higher standard nobody could ascend to, we project our addict's worst tendencies, past behaviors and first steps into addiction onto the brothers and sisters, or simply devote all our attention to the addict or recovering addict. We risk losing our other babies. At some point, the other shoe may drop, the sibling may rebel by acting out, or worse, following in the footsteps of the addict stumble into the same rabbit hole.

Or, the perceived pressure to succeed, to "not be another addicted kid," or "failure" may be too much for the brother or sister to bear.

We can remember our journey must remain focused on self actualization and as a part of this we can continue to love, trust (a BIG one) and listen to our children who feel betrayed by their heroes. We can fight our natural tendencies to overcompensate for our perceived failures (hopefully we've escaped Failure Island) and allow our children to know they WILL BE OK and if they fall, we will no more give up on them than we have on their addicted brother or sister. Remember, addiction is a family disease.

Trust, the BIG one, means taking the sibling or siblings out of the box where we have protected and isolated them to keep them in that perfect state of our recollections, and place them lovingly on one of our many life sticks we have become so masterful at maintaining. We've got this. We're practiced at this perhaps more than most.

Our babies may lose some of their pristine sheen, they may become chipped, cracked or even broken, temporarily, but that's all part of life isn't it? We will someday see the plates spinning, all of them different, yet equally cherished. It will be a sight to see.

And our children will remember how we helped them along their way while allowing them to figure life out on their own, chips, dings and all.

I'll be listening for the collective sigh of relief ... and joy.

. . . keep coming back

"People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed and redeemed. Never throw out anyone." ~ Audrey Hepburn

Twists and Turns - Life Lessons from Running My First Marathon - The St. Jude Memphis

"You must expect great things from yourself before you do them." ~ Michael Jordan

Nothing anyone tells you will prepare you for the grueling experience that is your first marathon. Nothing anyone tells you will prepare you for the elation you feel as you near, then cross the finish line of your first marathon. And yet, without the cautions, encouragements and support from friends, family and your running community the journey would not be as sweet, or even attainable in many cases.

The journey of anyone's first marathon begins in that instant when one dreams of accomplishing the impossible, of breaking through crazy unheard-of barriers, when a normally sane person embraces a childlike optimism born from a refusal to believe in impossibilities.

I am lucky enough to be part of one of those running communities mentioned above - Fleet Feet, St. Louis. There are kick-off meetings for these races, for the half marathon and marathon training seasons. The vibe in these meetings is electric, the people in the room ebullient with only possibilities.

"The optimism and positivity in this room is infectious," I thought to myself as I entered the venue where the most recent gathering was being held. "These people actually think they can run 26.2 miles!"

And many of them had broken the barrier, multiple times. For many of us, this would be our first foray into the unknown.

For me, the journey began halfway through our graduation run almost a year prior, a training experience for half-marathoners, a 12-mile get it in your head you can do this (13.1 miles) run from St. Louis Forest Park to the Gateway Arch and back. There we all were, my half-marathon training group at Broadway and Market Street in downtown St. Louis when one of the more childlike optimistic among us said, "Ya know, I think we can run a marathon!"

Remember, we were just north (or west) of 6 miles at that point. Suddenly my running partners turned into lemmings, jumping off the "we can do a marathon" cliff one by one in a mindless euphoric agreement to run 20 more miles than we had run that day, and 13 more miles than many of had ever run in our lifetimes.

My reaction was, "Wait a minute Baba Looey. I think it's the endorphins kicking in. We feel great because we've only run six miles which is 20 less than a marathon, plus another point-2. You might want to think about this."

Eventually, obviously, I was coerced into sipping, then drinking and soon during the next training session face down in the Kool-Aid I would become a marathoner-in-training.

This is not the time nor the place to discuss the training involved in attaining the only two goals for my journey - getting to the start line uninjured and making it, triumphantly, joyously (hopefully) to the finish line. I will tell you it was the longest training season of all my Fleet Feet compadres. The race itself took place on December 3rd. The training began in June. By the time I had arrived at my assigned starting corral for the Memphis St. Jude most of my training partners had run their races weeks or months before. Many of them, graciously, had continued a modified training schedule on our long Saturday runs to motivate the approximately ten of us who had chosen the last race of the season as our goal race. Which leads me to my first lesson learned.

You can do this marathon thing alone, I know people have done it, but I wouldn't advise or suggest it. You'll be missing a massive chunk of the magic.

Each Saturday morning I would gather with approximately 200 of my closest friends for the week's long, slow run. Teams would convene as designated according to experience, ability and goals after a thorough vetting via a questionnaire by the running club. The phrase we're all in this together is a poor descriptor of the vibe that develops within a collection of amateur athletes who start by running eight, then nine, then ten, then 12, 15 miles and more along with three or four training runs during the course of the week. We became truly a band of brothers and sisters, we happy few. One is seldom on his or her game each week, injuries come and go, you're either feeling it or you're not. It was the team, the community that kept me going each week. the encouragement from each feeding the ups and downs of the other. Negative thoughts were quickly squelched with humor ("Always with the negative waves Moriarty."), or a more direct quiet approach of ignoring the messenger and moving along to enjoy the day, the scenery, the camaraderie. Soon any negative-thinking Moriarty would get the message.

Running in packs also has its advantages of experience. Not all of us were running our first rodeo. Some of my team had run, two, three, ten, 25, even 35 marathons - there is a cadre of marathoners who are striving to run a marathon in each state. If, and only if you admit others just might know more than you about training, and if you learn from their experience, will you make it to the start line without your hips, knees and ankles feeling as though they had been massaged by a jackhammer.

Marathon training teaches humilité. We would often run "out and backs" when the course or trail we were traversing didn't allow us enough mileage to do the full ten, 15 or 21 miles without repeating some of the course. One morning as we approached the turn around I noticed the advanced, elite marathoners passing us, their sleek forms zipping by like trains passing on adjacent tracks.

As we proceeded I quipped, "We're getting closer to the half way point."

"How can you tell?" asked one of my running buddies.

"The runners are beginning to look more and more like me!"

Humilité.

The race, the marathon, is a microcosm of life.

Take the race one mile at a time is what I had been told. Don't look at what mile 22 might bring at mile 7. I didn't fully grasp what this meant exactly until I would feel each tweak, each twinge come and go, and realized I COULD go on. As I passed each of the thousands of the Memphians out on the course to cheer us along our way I realized there was a world of people who had my back, who felt what I was doing was important (The last I had heard this race raised almost $10 million for St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.) Near mile 5 is the inspiration point for the Memphis St. Jude Marathon as we passed through the hospital complex, where as many of the doctors, nurses and administrators as the hospital could spare and as many of the families, and patients who were able and well enough to brave the piercing December cold and rain on this day were stationed. This jolt of hope and courage I knew would take me through the next ten or 5 or 10 miles (if the emotions I felt didn't drop me to my knees) but I would need to find something more to dig deep into to carry me through.

This I did by letting go of control. I just decided I couldn't do this alone. I decided to let the race take me, to embrace the journey.

During months of training I had learned to run my race, but also to draw upon the strength of my teammates and other runners. At mile 11 or so the marathon group parted company with those of our team who were there to run the half. They had already run their marathon, or marathons for some, that year. The 12 or so teammates had dwindled to 6. We from St. Louis were spread 1, 2, 3, 1, sometimes within sight of each other, sometimes not, the two consisting of me and my running partner who each of us had run our first half marathon together some 18 months before. During the course of the last 15 miles the conversations between us went something like this:

"You go ahead, I'm done."
"No, you go ahead."
"You got this. Go on."

Finally I said, "We're finishing this together Tom."

At some point during a marathon, even with teammates, friends, family members by your side you need a miracle to get you through. And you need to seek, see and embrace the miracles. This is as true in life as it is in marathons. The miracles can come at any stage along the way and you have to hold fast to these, let them carry you through the early, mid and late stages.

My first miracle came in the form of an angel from Alaska.

As we parted company from our half marathoners a woman named Mary joined Tom and me. She was exuberant, mildly talkative and pulled us as we pushed her through the last 15 miles. This woman from the great northland whom we had never met and and I may never see again kept us going and laughing. She would pull up "lame" with just a quarter mile to go.

"You're not quitting on us now!" I yelled at her as I grabbed her arm.

She would finish true to form a few steps ahead of us.

I've already mentioned the Memphians who braved a steady rain for hours - I had thought it was just a drizzle. These angels would appear on their lawns, outside their churches, out of nowhere in sparsely populated areas along the route. The citizens of Memphis embrace St. Jude, the race weekend, what the hospital does for the kids and what it means to the city. And on that day they were embracing me. [They also have a sick sense of humor. At around the 21-22 mile mark they started saying, "You're almost there." ... Very funny!!!!]

Angels manifested themselves in the form of our Fleet Feet half marathon teammates who had changed into dry clothes to cheer us on not once, but three times along the way. One of them would appear miraculously 6 or 7 times along the way. I lost count at some point.

But the true miracle happened at the mile 20 water station. I knew I had only 6.2 miles to go and was concentrating on "staying in" mile 20 and not even looking, yet, to mile 21. As I approached the volunteers to decide if I needed water, or Gatorade, or both, I couldn't believe my eyes.

"Katie!" I screamed. Through the mist I could see our daughter 100 yards ahead, holding a cup of water, beaming her beaming smile. She and her fiancé had travelled the 380 miles from Springfield Illinois just to be at that mile marker to cheer us on.

"I'm gonna cry," I said.

"Don't cry dad," she laughed. "Keep running!"

The next week she called me to make sure I knew I wasn't hallucinating, imagining her at mile 20, taking an imaginary cup of water from an imaginary person - the girl has her dad's sense of humor I am happy to say.

I would tell her that her appearance got me to mile 24. It actually had a lot to do with pulling through the entire way along the 26.2 .

Crossing the finish line was everything I thought it would be and more. Many of the runners did victory dances, jumps, even pirouettes. Me, my celebration was a simple, small double fist pump - I had accomplished what months before I thought to be impossible. I wasn't the first to finish, or even close to being at the the top of my age bracket, but I had left it all on the field. Tom and I had accomplished a goal of negative splits, which means getting a bit faster in pace as the day would progress. It took us a little under five and a half hours to finish.

The marathon became everything I had been told it would be, but nothing I could have been prepared for. I had to experience it for myself, live it and look back on each mile afterward in disbelief. Running 26.2 miles has become an integral, integrated part of my life journey to breathe, trust, laugh, seek, hope, love and see all that life has to offer.

I know it's a bit deep and weepy but for me, that five and one-half hours on the streets of Memphis Tennessee encapsulated every bit of what I believe life can be if optimism overcomes negativity, if what is possible becomes reality rather than an unrealized dream.

My spring training begins this weekend. My goal race for May is the Flying Pig marathon in Porkopolis - Cincinnati. I am now totally immersed in the Kool-Aid and couldn't be happier. Maybe I'll see you there.

And as we say on the road ... you got this!

. . . keep coming back

"Only when your consciousness is totally focused on the moment you are in can you receive whatever gift, lesson or delight that moment has to offer." ~ Barbara de Angelis

Fable of the Running Man

"Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one." ~ Jane Howard

Deep within the hillsides of the village called Evanescium far from the hustle and bustle of the city from which most of the villagers had fled, lived a man who had never ceased fleeing.

You see, he was a running man.

He would wake up in the morning and he would run. In the afternoons, he would run. And in the evenings, he would run. There was no purpose to the running other than to busy himself away from the dread that seemed to relentlessly pursue him. There was no goal, not even the quinquennial Evanescium Games in which most of the villagers would participate to display each of their athletic talents as they pleased.

He knew if he ran, and ran, and ran, the displeasures, dismays and despondencies that pursued him daily could never overtake him - permanently.

You see, he would run a long way. And so he ran, with his pursuers close behind.

He believed by running he could keep at bay his past, past mistakes, misdeeds, forgotten or mislaid friendships, words said in haste, anger or fear he wished he had never uttered. He thought by relocating to Evanescium his regrets could not follow but incredibly the regrets seemed to be constantly nipping at his heels, spurring him along, fearing him forward.

Many of the other villagers were runners yet they would run their runs together. The running man would see them, happily dashing through the village pathways, enjoying the flora and fauna of the Evanescium forests and meadows, their efforts much less labored than his, their regrets far off in the distance. They seemed to revel in their regrets, their imperfections. There was a lightness to their strides unlike his plodding, heavy pace.

He soon learned when he would occasionally pass a group of his fellow villagers - and they would always smile at him and say things like "hello," "way to go," or "you got this," which he hated - many of them had found a purpose for their running.

You see, the Evanescium Games were to commence in a few months and many of the villagers would compete, displaying their running talents as they pleased The running man would have none of this. He feared if he joined one of the groups of villagers surely his failures would overtake him, thus, everyone would be witness to his faults and foibles. The worst of it would be if his past caught up with him.

He could see these groups ran effortlessly and at a much slower pace than he. He would notice, when he compared his running with the villagers', though his strides were plodding, his pace was frantic. This combination would inevitably lead to injury whereupon he would sequester himself in his little village home until he felt well enough to resume his flights. This would be when his fears, faults and foibles would seem to surround him like an engulfing, blinding fog.

One day after a recovery from one of these self-inflicted injuries as he emerged from his little village home frantic to begin again his running he happened to see a large group of his fellow villagers passing directly in front of his little village front yard. He of course paused, waiting until they passed, even though he could feel his failures, fears, faults and foibles ready to pounce and finally overtake and end him.

So he waited. He waited until the last of the runners were almost out of his sight, then emerged from his little village home front porch certain he could once again outdistance his pursuers - and just in time too! He could feel them. His failures, fears, faults and foibles having gained on him during his downtime were closing in!

The running man bolted from his little village home front yard at a pace a bit faster than normal to create some distance between him and his pursuers. Soon he heard the conversations, laughter and community of the group he had let pass minutes earlier. In his haste to outpace his demons he had inadvertently caught up with his fellow villagers.

"THE HORROR!" he thought to himself. Slowing his pace and shortening his stride the running man again lost the sight and sounds of the lighthearted ones.

"How could they run so slowly,. Why would they run so purposefully?" he asked himself. "Don't their worst fears eventually catch up to them?"

This was something that troubled him, something he could not understand.

Once again the dread that his past might catch up to him entered his mind. Caught between his failures, fears, faults and foibles and the joyful community he dare not join, the running man found himself slowing, accelerating, slowing, accelerating, keeping his distance - from everyone and everything, past, present and future.

The futility of this dance soon became apparent. As he approached the crest of a particularly rocky hillside surrounded by thick brush and and an equally thick stand of trees he discovered the villagers, those happy villagers were again within sight. As for his pursuers, he could feel them, gaining, closer than ever. It was as if he could hear them approaching.

"They will overtake me any moment now," he thought to himself.

He glanced backward over his shoulder at whatever was behind him and to his astonishment, and horror, he could faintly discern through the brush and the trees another group of joyous villagers approaching. Was he losing his mind?

Minutes passed which seemed like hours to the running man. The gap between the gleeful villagers ahead and the ebullient villagers behind was narrowing.

"Could this be my worst fear," he pondered. But this was no time for pondering. This was time for action. Never before had he been this close to the end, to his perceived end game.

For a moment he closed his eyes before making his move, whatever that might be...

Once opened, he found himself engulfed in a mass of joyous, fellow villagers. They seemed unconcerned about any pursuers.

"Where are the failures, fears, faults and foibles of these people," he wondered. "How can their strides be so measured, deliberate and self assured? Why do they not seem to be running from anything?"

Then as he began to run more slowly, deliberately and his strides became more relaxed within the mass of his fellow villagers the running man had a revelation...

All these years I've been so wrong. I thought my fellow villagers stupid for running so slowly and methodically, risking becoming overtaken by their worst darknesses. Now I realize they have not been running FROM anything. They're running TO something - every day!

And as he looked far ahead as the brush and stands of trees began to thin, he could see far off in the distance the lights and triumphant silhouette of Evanescium Memorial Stadium constructed years ago to commemorate the new beginnings built by the multitudes who would find a new life in the little village.

He became swept up by the happy conversations of his fellow villagers and no longer felt the constant apprehension of being pursued. Instead, he became aware for the first time this might be, finally, his new beginning. His pursuers, no longer a threat or even a consideration, the running man rounded a turn to a small decline on what was now a paved roadway. His pace, now measured, slow and deliberate he looked up and realized he was now entering the stadium with his fellow villagers - yes, his FELLOW villagers.

Soon the running man was immersed in a magnificent chorus of cheering from the villagers in the stands, the practiced and exquisite music of the Evanescium high school band and the exuberant cheering of the cheerleaders from the high school Cheer Squad.

"This is for YOU!" screamed one of his fellow villagers into the running man's ear so he could hear the words through the engulfing joyousness.

"What?" the running man asked, equally as loud to cut through the happy cacophony of the stadium.

"THIS IS FOR YOUUUUUUU!"

And as he embraced the joy, the community and the peace of the moment he could feel a tear collect in the corner of his right eye. He had, arrived.

From that time forward the running man would stand patiently each day on his little front porch awaiting his fellow villagers. As they approached he would hear their conversations, laughter and community and would join them, stride for stride, as they passed by.

Every now and then this group of villagers would pass a solitary runner plodding along, relentlessly evading his or her worst failures, fears, faults and foibles. The running man would smile and say, "Hello,""Way to go," or "You've got this," knowing these lone villagers may not yet be ready for the stadium.

Each day at the end of each run he would say goodbye to his fellows and privately reminisce about the journey of the day, the sites seen, the conversations conversed, the trails traversed and the obstacles overcome.

He would contemplate how fortunate he was to have found himself among the many and wonder ...

"Just think where I'll arrive tomorrow?"

... keep coming back

"Go forth in the busy world and love it. Interest yourself in its life, mingle kindly with its joys and sorrows." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Déjà vu in Recovery

"And I feel  |  Like I've been here before  |  Feel  |  Like I've been here before." ~ David Crosby, Déjà vu

Oh those feelings that emerge sometimes slowly like an approaching fog or suddenly like a cold winter breeze seemingly coming out of nowhere as the November seasonal change approaches. We know these feelings, these manifestations are telling us something and are often accompanied by physical indicators like muscle tightness, fatigue or even fever, sore throat or other complaints arriving when our resistance is compromised, or down.

What are the feelings telling us?

Sometimes as parents of addicts, parents of kids in recovery or even parents who have not walked our recovery walk, these feelings may signal old behaviors creeping up on our lives. We may be approaching dangerous pathways, risking revisiting sites abandoned long ago. Are we imagining, again, the worst for our children? Are we inserting ourselves into their lives again, even by presuming what we should be telling them so they will just get to that next step in their recovery?

Are we finding ourselves impatient with our children's progress? Do we find ourselves angry about the lingering "addict" behavior even as they heroically move through recovery?

What exactly are we feeling? Or are we once again, afraid to feel?

Then comes the neck stiffness, the cold we can't seem to shake or the inability to secure those elusive seven to eight hours of sleep we know we need. We stop taking care of ourselves. Even if we do not directly insert ourselves, control, enable or otherwise meddle in our children's affairs - there are endless possibilities - we can begin again to focus more on our babies than on ourselves.

It's déjà vu all over again. It's a tedious familiarity. It causes our bodies to rebel to snap us out of, hopefully, our old thinking and awaken our consciousness to again pursue what is right for us.

See these then not as symptoms or manifestations to be ignored or even as signposts to guide us along our journeys. As we enter into situations with our addicted sons or daughters, or our children who although in recovery exhibit the lingering effects of The Addiction, these déjà vu all over again moments are simple reminders that we've come too far to answer the call of our worst tendencies.

The Addiction may still be there, weakened, but not yet gone. Let's not give it any nourishment or encouragement for rebirth.

Take a breath, close your eyes, count to 10 - really!

Smile.

Say "I love you" to yourself. Say it to your son, your daughter - those who have spiraled and those also who thankfully have not. Feel the tightness in the back of your neck subside, the blood rush leaving your face.

Open your eyes. You've released a burden before it overtakes your life, before it again becomes a way of living. You've stayed your course once again on your road to personal recovery,

Safe travels!

... keep coming back

"Just can't wait to get on the road again." ~ Willie Nelson

"It's déjà vu all over again." ~ Yogi Berra

Failure Island

"I've failed over and over again in life. And that is why I succeed." ~ Michael Jordan

Let's go back in time to our past that compelled us to control, to blame ourselves and our children for their plummet and seek out any fix to put an end to our shared dire circumstances.

There we stood, marooned on Failure Island. Our lives had become shipwrecked. Life's winds had taken us off course although we had tried our best to stem the swelling tides surging around us. We soon found the waves of anger, sadness, belligerence, depression and discouragement to be too much for our little ships we believed to be seaworthy. We trusted years of parenting to the best of our ability would prevent the disease of addiction from entering our households.

We were wrong. Our lives were scuttled. We went then into survival mode but on our little islands we were alone, isolated (from the Latin insulatus - made into an island). We became the island, the rock jutting above a vast expanse created not by our children or even The Addiction but by our own making.

We experienced the feelings of failure owned only by parents of children who have stumbled into addiction.  Until we owned our anger and disappointment, until we really felt it, we were unable to let it all go so we could again see our babies for the beautiful human beings they are. We remained marooned because that's exactly where we wanted to be at that time. It was an awful yet comfortable and painfully familiar place to exist.

Feelings are frightful. Escaping the tides and barriers of an island seems an impossibility. Until we allowed ourselves the revelation that our isolation was a losing proposition and a pathway to nowhere, to continuing rage, pathos and self destruction, we remained.

One day we saw a way off the island. We made the attempt. It may have required several efforts, the rip currents of our despondency pushing us back to the island again and again, and then perhaps, again.

But we eventually made it off Failure Island - exhausted.

Once we found the strength to breathe and reflect we made certain promises to ourselves. We vowed to never return to that island. We might visit via the Google Maps of our minds to reflect on where we had been and how damn far we'd come. It's ok, failures as parents are inevitable, but we can decide never again to distance ourselves from our children, family and friends by so immersing ourselves in our faults and foibles.

When we come to grips with our humanity, that we are REAL humans with real weaknesses and character flaws - remembering REAL is what we are striving for each day - we can shrug off the guilt and bitterness that kept us on that island for far too long.

Escaping Failure Island was an early first step on the pathway to loving our children and hating The Addiction - to live our lives to the fullest.

We can remember this when we feel ourselves drifting off course into melancholy and lose our bearing. Our true north is within us. Trust this and with our hands firmly on the helm our best adventures are just over that horizon.

Bon voyage!

... keep coming back

"The only true failure in life is not to be true to the best one knows." ~ Buddha

"And a rock feels no pain - and an island never cries." ~ Paul Simon, "I Am A Rock" 

Finding Peace in Upsetting Times

"All we are saying is give peace a chance." ~ John Lennon

These are difficult times. There is a catastrophic civil being waged in Syria, a land grab in Ukraine, global warming, world-wide privation, and in the U.S a failure to address chronic socioeconomic, judicial and educational disparities between the haves and the never hads.

Add to this a U.S. presidential election so crude, contentious, hateful, petty and stupid the entire world is wondering what the HELL is going on in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

No wonder we're all walking on eggshells. Once again, does any of this sound familiar?

We all experienced feelings of foreboding in our personal lives as we navigated through our journey while being constantly bombarded by the confrontations The Addiction would lay across our recovery pathways. Many of us are challenged even as our children triumphantly struggle through their own recoveries.

We have been threatened psychologically and physically. Now, a world in chaos only adds to our depletion, to our exhaustion.

So how do we find peace?

We don't want to start from the very beginning as sung in "Do Re Me" from The Sound of Music. That would be a disaster to go back to the cloud forest, the muck and the shit.

What we can do is to remember HOW we embarked upon our journey, how we took that first step or initial crawl out of our personal primordial soup of despair. We can be better than the world in chaos and the petty little politicians. We can remember our goal to somehow, eventually and on our own terms find our truest selves. We can look beyond the crap being spewed all around us to see the potential glories awaiting us on that next plateau.

We cannot succumb to the negativity that creates neither a benefit to our progress nor a loving or consciously kind state of mind for the children we cherish.  We can simply focus on our journey and by doing so, become beacons for The Good rather than additional catalysts for The Bad in the world.

There are enough souls out there fueling the fires of negativism, adversity, hostility and distrust.

Remember, The Addiction feeds on the negative. Our children can sense this when we exude defeatism, that pessimistic resignation to all that is hurtful and destructive to our recoveries. If we resign to the darkness we risk becoming dismissive to our sons and daughters and through our actions travel down pathways we've been before and don't really want to visit again. Feeling abandoned, our children will return to the only NORMAL they know - The Addiction.

By being true beacons of The Good rather than joining the chorus of discord we may find our own peace and perhaps, show the way for our children. We may feel we are in the minority, we're not. We are the quietly strong, not the bellicose insecure. We can't be shouted down forever. Hang in there. Give peace a chance!

It will find us. And it will find our children!

... keep coming back

"Take care of yourself. You never know when the world will need you." ~ Rabbi Hillel

Fable of the Robins

"Change your thoughts and change your world." ~ Norman Vincent Peale

A tormented man sat each day behind his home on a patio shielded from the weather by a shingled, wooden overhang supported by four large wooden columns of great strength. Nobody knew what had caused this man to be so bitter, so angry and so sad. All they knew is each day, there he sat, trying to enjoy Nature's bounty and the Great Creator's endless mysteries, yet with such a hard heart and tortured soul he could not.

So there he was, alone, with his thoughts and all his sadnesses his only companions.

The man had for so long lived with this company he imagined this would be the extent of his existence forever. He became enthralled by the melancholy, the constant din of the negative. Each day as he sat on that patio he would dive deeper and deeper into the vortex of his own abyss. He had almost forgotten what had brought him there, but not really, he would occasionally admit.

The man's torment had originated from outside the range of his little patio, something he had not created. Yet he was certain if he would sit in misery long enough the torture that followed him each day to the shelter of the overhang would simply go ... away.

There he would sit in rain, shine, cold or warm weather, snow, ice or searing heat, the man's shelter shielded him from any experience, joy or pain. It was as if someone had pulled a shade over each of the three open sides of the man's small world.

And so it was. And the man became comfortable with his nothingness.

One day as the Earth was preparing to tilt toward the Sun in its celestial dance and spring was readying to bring its warmth, wonder, and symphonies of life, an intruder appeared under the eaves of the man's sanctuary. A robin, a very busy robin gracefully landed atop one of the pillars.

Soon the busy robin began constructing a nest on the four-by-four inch square of the supporting wooden column, bringing wisps of straw and strings and things with him in a frenzy of activity. Being more concerned with readiness and haste than cleanliness, the trespasser would soon jeopardize the perfection, quiet and sanctity of the world the man had so carefully fashioned.

And the noise, the phttt-phttt-phttt of the bird's intricate weaving was a constant interruption to his previously enjoyed silence.

Soon, the bird was joined by another. They were starting a family.

The sanctuary would be ruined!

The man had no alternative but to knock down the nest, sweep away the wisps of straw and strings and things, hose the shit off the patio floor - oh, there was so much shit - to reclaim his space.

He looked around and thought, "I have my world back."

He was again at peace, or so he thought.

The next day the man returned to his refuge to resume his daily solitary sojourn in his torment. As he sat down he heard again the gleeful phttt-phttt-phttt of the industrious robin working tirelessly on top of the same pillar swept clean by the man the day before. As if mocking the man the bird would only interrupt his work with a celebratory song, so cheerful in its rhythmic, repeating simplicity.

The man listened and reflected, "I must stop this interruption to my quiet. Why won't these birds allow me my peace?"

Once again, he knocked the nest off the pillar, swept away the wisps of straw and strings and things, hosed off the shit from the patio floor - how could they shit so much in one night? - to reclaim his space.

This performance would be repeated day after day. The man even resorted to drilling screws into the top of the support as a deterrent to the robin's persistence. This only strengthened the robin's resolve by inadvertently providing a foundation onto which the nest could be anchored.

Still the dance of build, destroy, build, destroy continued.

And through all this the man's heart continued to harden.

One day, despite the man's best efforts, the two robins presented to the world three hatchlings.

The wisps of straw and strings and things increased three-fold.

Nature had found a way.

One sunny spring morning as the man emerged onto the patio he thought he might take a quick glance at how the hatchlings were progressing. You see, even he in his darkness and despair could not sweep the new life from the pillar.

Perhaps the robins were affecting him.

This morning as he approached the nest he looked down to see one of the three crumpled on the ground, pushed out, abandoned.

"How could they do this?" the man pondered.

And whatever light that had seeped into his heart and soul left as quickly as it had entered.

Spring approached its concession to summer. The family, the four, moved on.

The nest came down.

Once again the man sat alone. Spring passed into summer, summer to fall into winter. Through the passing of the seasons the man had a lot of time to reflect upon what had transpired those spring mornings.

Why did that robin keep coming back? My resistance had no effect on him. He just kept coming and coming and coming. 

Why did the little one have to die?

The man had no answers. He felt helpless and hopeless. He looked around and observed time had passed him by once again. Winter would soon be relinquishing its hold on his surroundings to the spring.

"I am done!" he cried aloud. "I cannot continue in this way. I had hoped for life but what I got was death. What is the point! Why even try, or hope, or ... ."

The man broke down and wept in his shrinking world.

That year winter held on longer than usual. Snow was followed by some of the bitterest cold on record, then winds with blistering, stinging rains. The blooms did not bloom, trees tried their best to courageously hold onto their buds, mostly unsuccessfully. The harbingers of spring, the willows, crocuses and forsythia stood silent, waiting, absent.

The man sat in the bitter cold and once again became embittered by his life, his surroundings, all the contributors to his ever darkening existence. Exhausted, this time, he quietly whispered, "I am done."

Weeks past and winter refused to relinquish its place to its successor season. Darkness turned darker. Winter's pulsing silences began to take the man under to anguish even he had never experienced.

"I want my robins back!" he seemed to hear himself say. Then, finally, the winter engulfed him. And he was gone.

Days turned to nights and the man sat silently unaware of his surroundings, his feelings, his breathing, thoughts or dreams. Finally the Earth once again began its tilt toward the Sun in its celestial dance. Spring was ready, ready to take its rightful place in the succession of seasons to bring its warmth, wonder and symphonies of life to the world.

The man felt the warmth of spring upon his face. He opened his eyes yet could see nothing.

Then he heard it, he heard the phttt-phttt-phttt, followed by the rhythmic, simple celebratory song.

And the man swears to this day, if you were to ask him, on that morning, he heard the shit hitting the floor of his patio. He will tell you for the first time in years, he smiled.

"I cannot continue in the way I have been living for so long," the man cried out in his own celebratory song.

"I am NOT done!"

The man looked up toward the four-by-four inch square of the supporting wooden column where for so many days he had swept away the little nests of the robin. And ever so slowly he could see, he could see the robin looking at him, taking a break from his intricate weaving, his phttt-phttt-phttt, his celebratory song, as if to say, "Oh, there you are."

From that time forward the man's heart softened and his soul opened. Each year, he would cherish his time with the robins, the phttt-phttt-phttt, the celebratory songs, even the shit, and of course, the little ones. He would bemoan the occasional sacrifice of the one so the others could thrive.

He began to understand the joys of life are often accompanied by occasional sorrows. He began to laugh again, and cry again.

He became a part of his world, not a refugee within it.

Each year when he would enter his patio and realize the robins had moved on, he would as well. He began to live his life fully inside his little patio, embracing all of Nature's bounties and the Great Creator's endless mysteries. He would soon emerge from his sanctuary to experience the multitudes of adventures life has to offer.

And the man would smile, each day. He would be forever grateful for the despair that brought him to his knees and for the robins that would not give up on him.

He found his true peace.

And nature found a way!

... keep coming back

"Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs." ~ Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre