I woke to very heavy rain this morning. Its a wet and cold Xmas and we keep vigil over the children’s grandfather who is now in Bellingen Hospital where my own Dad died.
I bought more gifts than I could comfortably afford – by way of my own thinking. I have been trying to recall the joy in spending that Izzy had and he was always abundant. I stayed in Urunga. Much of my present behaviour was within me before the Death and the Coma but those two events have re-ignited it and I wear it like a crab wears its shell. I do believe I am also scuttling sideways through each day and you know what – it don’t matter, It really don’t matter. I am making it. I am staying clean. I am staying alive. So far – I haven’t done mortal damage to anything or anyone.
Today, we can, each of us, look back on our lives and get a glimmering of why something happened and how it fit into the larger mosaic of our lives. And this will continue to be true for us. We have stumbled. We will stumble. And we learn about ourselves, about what makes us stumble and about the methods of picking ourselves up.
Each Day a New Beginning.
A few days before Christmas last year, I sat in my therapists office, sipping in the lavender flavored air and her warm sage advice. I was in a good place. My job wasn’t killing me too much, I hadn’t had a hangover in what seemed an eternity, I was in yoga teacher training and continually becoming a more dedicated and regular practitioner, I knew what self love meant (really!), and my apartment was clean (this is a really big benchmark for adulthood for me). I actually remember sitting there across from her feeling…together.We were talking about my upcoming trip home for the holidays to my mother’s house. I told her that while in the past these holiday gatherings had tended to undo me in the worst possible way, I was actually looking forward to this time home and this big holiday affair. I was severely optimistic because this time, I was a grown up. A spiritually progressed grown-up by Oprah standards.This year would be different because I was different.So three days later as I sat in my childhood home living room in a ball on the floor sobbing uncontrollable hate tears, a string of “fuck-you assholes” hanging thick in the air somewhere between my mother and sister and I as they continued on unaffected in their game of cribbage, their normal “there she goes” giggling eye roll routine only stoking the hate fire further- I couldn’t help but wonder.What. The. Fuck. Happened.
Source: HOW TO NOT REGRESS INTO YOUR 17 YEAR OLD SELF AT CHRISTMAS. (7 PRACTICES YOU CAN USE NOW.) — HIP SOBRIETY