On the Law of Lomonosov-Lavoisier, and Growing Up

OK, now that I either have your attention, or categorically lost it, what is it? I'll save you the Google, and tell you.

The law of Lomonosov-Lavoisier is also known as the law of conservation of mass. Simply put, in a closed system, you can dink around and change things from one thing to another, but the amount of mass stays constant. (And hint: our heads are closed systems.)

I heard a really old guy speak recently. He was probably in his 80s, his speech was slurred and slow, and shaky. I was distracted by this, as he sat behind me, and I kept thinking he was drunk. I didn't realize how old he was, because I couldn't see him. Finally, I turned around to see him as he spoke, and for some reason that enabled me to hear what he was saying. And his message was entirely sober, and sage. I'm so glad I turned around.

He was long-term sober, but retired. Something had changed recently for him, not sure what, and he had returned to meetings. Large sections of his schedule had opened up from whatever it was he used to do, and he found himself with big blocks of time, and nothing to fill them, and our old friend addiction was beginning to quietly knock, bump him in the shoulder, whisper imperceptibly in his ear.

He was AAAY-rush (don't forget to roll your tongue, on the R), originated from the Dublin area, and after all these years you could still hear the lilt, and brogue. My imagery-ish mind immediately began to paint pictures of his clan - heavy pub drinkers, doorway drunks. It was probably tainted by another AAAY-rush woman I had heard speak a bit longer, ago. Tough old gal, she has watched her husband die of alcoholism and was currently on her fourth of six sons in the process of dying from the disease. She was noting that it gets expensive, that by then none had money for their own funerals, and she had to pay for them. And this was her reward for sobriety. Did I mention that sometimes I don't understand God? That was another time.

So anyway, the old AAAY-rush guy is rambling on, and he says this word: replace.

And for some reason at that moment, my brain starts working, again, my auditory centers fire up and begin to process the input, and send it out to the cortex for meaning.

What the guy was saying was that he had come to recognize his compulsive nature. That he had all these compulsive parking spaces that needed to be filled, and he had historically filled them with drinking, or work. And now they were devoid of both, and empty, and screaming for attention.

This guy had the insight to realize that our nature, whatever the flavor of compulsive brain we have, is to fill our lives with compulsions. Substances, behaviors, thoughts, whatever. And that it's a matter of filling the parking spaces, to stay sober. But that we could choose what to park, there.

Maybe this is why God put the bombs in our heads, our compulsive brains. People in this club have a much bigger parking lot than normies, it would seem. Big, huge, over-the-top parking spaces for hummers, stretch limos, 18 wheelers, and, hell, jet airplanes. We don't do anything on normal scale. There's a lot of space there, to use, in a compulsive brain.

But what if the curse were also the blessing? Remember, the God of my un-understanding is a funny, and ironic guy. And smart.

What if we were to fill those parking spaces with service? That is the conclusion this guy had come to, and he was in the meeting, thinking about how he could replace his old nemesis with service. Man, did that get my attention. I was ashamed for judging him so quickly, based on an aging voice.

I talked to him after the meeting a bit. You see, I have a bit of AAAY-rush blood in me, too. And I could see the sparkle in that old guy's eyes, behind that sagging, spotted, softened skin. He was entirely sober.

So the message here today, having to do with the law of Lomonosov-Lavoisier? God built our parking lots, whatever they are. Our work in sobriety really isn't how to change the parking lot, because that's beyond our control. We have compulsive natures. We will not get rid of them. We will have to feed them somehow, and gain control. Our job is to re-fill the pavement, with good stuff. Maybe instead of a parking lot, we should hold a friendship fair, and open booths. Who needs all those gas guzzlers, I don't.

Time to grow up, and replace the old, with the new.

Except for the old AAAY-rush guy. We'll keep him.

-The Traveler