It has amazed me over the years to see that as I released the hurt from the past, the joys returned as well. Somewhere in there, too, forgiveness. As my vision opens, it’s so incredible to me that nothing is as I thought it would be or should be. Or rather, I’m amazed that I ever thought I knew how the world and the people in it would behave, or how my inner and outer life would unfold.

I’ve always loved reading mountain climber stories, though I’m not an athlete nor an adventurer. I think I know why I never get tired of those stories. Because the work of recovery, and living sober, is an inner mountain climb. We just keep trudging along. Thank God there are guides and ropes and beautiful scenery. There are also bumps and bruises, betrayals and disappointments. But we just keep going.

On 9/12/01, on my way home from NYC on the train, I was reading a beautiful little memoir, First You Shave Your Head, by Gerry Larkin. She is a Buddhist monk and was traveling in Korea with her teacher and another woman, also a monk. Her trip was incredibly rigorous. As my commuter train pulled through the tunnel back to New Jersey, with tears streaming down, I read the passage of the book where she realizes everything always comes down to “just this.” Presence in the moment. Sometimes it’s about grinding out a day. Sometimes it’s about just letting myself be. And the this isn’t whatever’s happening or whoever’s there. “This” is not the drama, nor the comfort nor the confusion nor the joy. It’s just “this.” The moment. I’m discovering that under all the background noise and foreground mayhem, there is a well of deep silence. That, to me, is the “this.”

A young new friend was astonished to learn that even after nearly 16 years of back-to-back abstinence from sugar, flour and wheat, I still have fear. I know where she’s coming from. When we are hurting so bad, we so want to believe that if we just get a few things right, we won’t hurt so bad. And life does get better, much better. But we don’t achieve perfection. Recovery doesn’t guarantee me anything but the opportunity to live real. For today, I can feel God’s love whenever I pause and ask to feel it. That too is the “this.” So as my vision widens, I see and feel more that  is sad and hurtful, I’m also able to feel more serenity and certainty that the only sure thing is “just this.”   Breathing in, breathing out, just this.