On Call Me a Curmudgeon

Ok, so I absolutely hate it when I pop onto a page and somebody then blasts me with their music or a damned video link. I don't mind being offered material, but when it comes at me screaming loud with no choice, my inner rebel revolts.

But this...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HqbVbPvlDoM

Would that we all had this type of relationship with our HP. He's The One That I Want, if I really stop and think about it.

And, my favorite part is when the one backs up that long stretch. Symbolism, there, people in recovery!

And I might add that to a trainer's eye, this performance is not all that hard to figure out. The cues are all there to see, but are subtle and fluid. The screw-ups are there too, but are still beautiful in the performance for the sheer exhuberance of willingness.

I told you, recovery is everywhere, in the corners of my mind... LOL

-The Traveler

On Suffering, and Shattered Hearts

I've known a lot of people over the years who have hated "God." Even those who have disavowed His existence. Funny thing is, they hated that which they claimed did not exist.

I've heard a lot of the argument that it's inconsistent an all-loving or all-wise God would create such a flawed world, and allow such terrible, unjust suffering.

I still don't have the answers. But I'm getting some ideas that are beginning to make sense, now.

My personal recovery pathway has shown me that the process of suffering, the experience of a shattered heart and pulverized inner-self are portholes to a larger way of living and richer means of interacting with others in our world. Something about the pain and trauma, and healing, from this state opens up new levels of existence, in my experience.

I think it's when one gets a glimpse of the new levels of existence that one can look back and be thankful for the experience of the pain. Perhaps we will not ever be thankful for the pain and trauma, but yet learn to be thankful for the experience of it.

The imagery of a spine comes to mind, versus a thigh bone, here. In the case of a thigh bone, one has one solid, strong, structural member. But in the case of a spine, there are a lot of little pieces, all strung together with connections: ligaments. It also is strong, not as strong as a solid bone perhaps, but it has this added magical quality of being flexible. Structural, yet flexible. It bends. It twists. Yet it also supports.

I think our "hearts" are like this, in recovery. Prior to trauma, we are like the thigh bone, a single heart, solid, one piece. But after our hearts are shattered and put together again with connectors, they are perhaps a bit more vulnerable, but are ever so enhanced in flexibility and sensitivity. Not a great analogy, but what popped to mind, just now.

I feel my broken heart, every day, in recovery. I hurt. I sometimes resent God for "hurting me." And yet I also can sense the beginnings of a richer person, that I could become. A life on an enhanced plane of living. A consciousness better able to connect more deeply, more honestly, more vulnerably with those of importance in my life.

And I think it just may be worth the price, in the end.

-The Traveler

On Sometimes, I Sits and Thinks

I've spent a while now waiting for the inflammation to subside in my dominant arm golfer's elbow tendon. It's not gone, even yet, but it's much better.

I let go the compulsion to write, and just blew it off, to get the pressure off myself. I have vastly enjoyed the freedom of knowing I can refuse myself a compulsion. Just to tell my compulsive mind that I'm not going to do that, today, AND I'm not going to obsess about NOT doing it, TODAY. It's been a freeing sort of few weeks, just to feel that small lesson.

"Recovery" is such a powerful word, once one embraces and surrenders in one's own recovery process. It infiltrates the mind and powers the mindfulness of the way we live, and starts to tint all our thoughts. Even in the smallest ways.

For example, I now notice every time I turn on my computer that it flashes me the message "Press F11 for recovery" upon boot up. Did you ever notice that?

And I do other things, too. Like actually think about forgiving myself. Previously, I would have gone into an obsessive spiral of subconscious self-blame and judgement whenever a compulsion would arise and I would try to deal with its power. Now, that sucker gets thrown into the spotlight in my conscious thought, and I give it a good look, and start to talk back. I'm done with being mute. I'm in charge, in my recovery, and am no longer a slave to the quiet whispers of compulsions. They still have power, and still take up a lot of real estate in my head. But now I'm not alone. Or the bottom line, to dealing with them. Now I can punt: up-delegate to my HP and then just pull out the tools and focus on the next right thing, in this moment, and not get all paralyzed in a useless debate about a larger-than-life scenario that I can't hope to conquer.

And the thing about this that is surprising to me is that this whole process now results in comfort, instead of anxiety.

Whoa, what a difference.

Thing is, I never felt all that anxious, before recovery. But now that I feel the comfort, I can look back and see that I was anxious. Anxious, but disconnected from feeling it. I was stressed, and anxious, trying to solve the universe, trying to take on the whole enchilada in one bite.

I'm in an intense group that has been gnawing through the early stages of studying intimacy. It's a small group, usually only 4-5 people. We really get into it, and it's tiring and scary, and exhilirating at the same time. And it's mixed gender, too, which makes it extra-challenging. But we are finding that with each heave we give - opening up, and laying aside our fears and biases - we are growing much closer to each other, finding a core trust, and building a base to get to amazing places of growth. It's utterly fascinating to see this happen, weekly, like some sort of gel, or polymerization.

A bit of trust happens, we hear some risky revelation from one of us, we feel the weight of the responsibility of keeping that revelation private and protected within our group, then we grow closer and deepen our trust. We push ourselves to open up more, enter that danger zone of revelation, putting stuff out there that we never did, before, to anyone.

Talk about the ultimate rush. Rather like emotional bungee jumping.

That's where I've been, lately. Spending some quiet time, sitting and thinking, and doing a good bit of real-life F2F work.

Those above paragraphs are actually related, you see. Because we all want that fantasy intimacy Hollywood has painted into our minds. We want that wash of honeymoon euphoria, that intense rush of enmeshment with a soulmate. Or we think we do; we were taught to want this.

But in the end, what it is that we want is comfort from intimacy. See? My rambling paragraphs are related.

We want "intimacy" the way we want the Charlton Heston's Ten Commandments God. Big, loud, larger-than-life. Right out there, in front of us. Unmistakable. Grand. Theatrical.

But real intimacy, like our real HPs, is a still, small thing. It's very stillness and smallness accentuates the power, when it's finally experienced.

When we stop spinning and learn to calm ourselves and listen, and one day we don't hear, but rather feel God - perhaps by seeing His reflection in something we see or hear in another person, or perhaps by noticing something WE say or do or think that is fundamentally abnormal to our previous way of being - it's so much more powerful than if He had clobbered us over the head with the club, in judgement or commandment. Because He only interfaces with us in an intimate fashion, so it's still, and small, and when we FINALLY feel it, powerful. And comforting.

Likewise, when we settle ourselves and flay open our fears with our sharpened courage, and reveal ourselves to a person of importance in our life, and that person takes in the revelation and later reflects it in some small, understated act of love - it's a powerful, powerful thing. That's intimacy. And it's absolutely no mistake that it's totally analogous to how our HP interacts with us. Still. Small. Quiet. Powerful.

Feels good to get back to a bit of writing, but I can already feel the tendon burning, so this will have to do.

And you know what? I'm not feeling the need to look for a graphic to go with this, plain-Jane as this is.

And that's ok.

- The Traveler

Tendon is doing much better

I don't know what caused the incredible flare up of inflammation, and, frankly, had expected it to last longer, but it seems to be mysteriously disappearing at a similar rate to how it came. (Well, that, and ice packs and 24 hour NSAID coverage and passive and active range-of-motion exercises daily).

I can type now, but will keep it very short, so as not to stress the forearm and cause it to inflame again.

It feels great to be able to floss again, and brush my teeth correctly. And shampoo my head with two hands.

The poor Germans, though. I absolutely cannot hit tennis balls, now. I'm enlisting the help of volunteers, and for them I am grateful.

The things we take for granted...

We need reminders, now and then, don't we?

-The Traveler

gone awhile

ive blown out a tendon in my dominant arm and cant tpe

On Willingness: Flexing at the Poll

You know you're getting up there in the years when you look back on your life and think of the experiences you've had, and they seem surreal, that you did that. When I look back, I have memories of doing things that amaze me, and had they not been planted in my memory, I would doubt that was part of my past.

I have some horse parts to my past. I spent some summers wrangling horses up in the Rocky Mountains. I did a lot of trail riding. Later, in college, I did some racehorse workouts, riding those towering Thoroughbreds on a track.

I've been thrown from a horse and stomped on under hoof on a paved road. I've had a saddle slip off, and underbelly, in the middle of a trail on a hillside so steep that I could barely dismount and re-cinch that thing, for danger of falling down the hillside. I've been on a horse going through a bog hip-deep, into mud suction so tight that when that horse heaved his hindquarters from the mud, the mud sucked the iron shoe right off that hoof as it came out of the mud. (Fortunately, we had an amateur farrier on the trail with us, and we were able to replace the shoe, or the hoof would have worn to nothing in an hour or so, walking the rocky surfaces.)

There are many facets to the different styles of horsemanship, and riding.

One thing I never had the budget for was Dressage. I had a friend, whose father was a wealthy New York publisher, who was into Dressage, though, and I learned a bit about the sport / art form. Dressage is seen in the performances of the Royal Lipizzaner stallions of the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, whose horses became famous for the heroic rescue they underwent during WWII, to save these animals and this art form. I'm always amazed at how, when we learn the higher ways of working with animals, we can apply the same principles to humans. But we seldom do!

Dressage (a French term meaning "training") is a path and destination of competitive horse training, with competitions held at all levels from amateur to the Olympics. Its fundamental purpose is to develop, through standardized progressive training methods, a horse's natural athletic ability and willingness to perform, thereby maximizing its potential as a riding horse. At the peak of a dressage horse's gymnastic development, it can smoothly respond to a skilled rider's minimal aids by performing the requested movement while remaining relaxed and appearing effortless.

One of the precepts in Dressage is a term called "flexing at the poll." You can see this in action well in the above graphic. "Flexing at the poll" is when a horse has the head pulled in and up by the rider's position of the reins. The rider guides the horse's head position by gentle pressure on the bit through the reins, and positioning of the hands.

The "poll" of a horse is the occipital region of the head, located just behind the ears. When a horse flexes at the poll, he bends this region of the neck, in order to tuck his chin toward his chest and raise the head.

Flexing at the poll results in a beautiful form. The head is raised high and the neck arched and elegant. The plane of the horse's face is vertical to the ground, as seen by the observer in the stands - an aesthetically pleasing line. But flexing at the poll is functional as well, more importantly. By flexing at the poll, a horse shifts the location of his center of gravity.

Left to his own will, a horse will stretch out his neck comfortably, lowering his head and pushing the muzzle out forward. But this head position shifts his center of gravity forward in the horse. If you see a picture of a racehorse running, you see this position - head and neck down toward the horizontal, muzzle stretched forward. But think also of the position of the jockey: the jockey is perched way up front on that horse, up over the withers, up over that horse's center of gravity, which is way forward in this head position.

In Dressage, where horses are asked to do fancy footwork and a sort of ballet-of-the-equine, the physics are similar to a gymnast on a balance beam. It's all about balance, and about controlling the center of gravity in order to accomplish technically difficult moves. The horse's four feet are often off the ground, shifting positions during the beautiful horse-dance. It's a precarious balance of a half-ton of weight with a high center of gravity. And for this reason, the horse must have his center of gravity underneath a well-seated rider, and be centered for balance.

So there are two points here: First, that the rider must be well-seated, which means over the horse's back, not up on the withers in precarious balance like a jockey rides. Second, that the horse must have his center of gravity directly underneath the rider's center of gravity, in perfect alignment. This way, when the horse dances, delicately maneuvering through complex moves, there is a tight overall center of gravity.

When you are trying to do Dressage, this makes all the difference in how gracefully the horse and rider can move together - whether the horse is willing to flex at the poll.

But horses can be stubborn animals, wanting "their own head" and not willing to submit, or accommodate to a rider's instruction. They can balk and get stiff, refusing to flex at the poll. The most highly sought after performance horses are those with a flexible, willing attitude... those that willingly work WITH their rider, and flex at the poll.

We are like horses, flexing, or not, at the poll, when it comes to our will. Flexing at the poll is our version of willingness, to turn our life and our will over to our HP. We either balk and become brittle, or we learn to flex. Those of us that flex at the poll learn that by doing so, our center of gravity becomes aligned with that of our Higher Power, and the beautiful ballet can commence.

**********

So as I'm writing this, I'm listening to a tape by Joe and Charlie, and a couple things pop out at me:

"Willingness is a one-person job..." - the only one who can effect it in me... is me.

"You have a choice: Self-will, or the will of your HP."

***********

And it all amounts to flexing at the poll.

-The Traveler

Oh, and, I just have to add a footnote: Lipizzaner horses are born black, and mature to white. Hmmmmmmmmmm.

On Even When, Especially When, It Hurts

This fall, one of the themes that has been swimming around in the noggin has been that emotions are indicators - that they are neutral signposts along the route of recovery with messages that indicate truths, via reactions. Our job is to note what they are, then do the detective work to see the source, the root, the base issue that needs work.

I was in a meeting last night and shared some perspective, and afterwards a participant came up and told me that they didn't want to hear what I had to say, and that it made them uncomfortable. And then they said I often share things that they don't like to hear. But that these things are often the things they need to hear, but don't want to. And they thanked me.

This meeting is relatively new, and it's very small, and gutsy in nature. It's a place of high risk, because we really get into issues, and it's also a place of safety, because we have an unspoken respect for the risks taken there. I am very grateful for such an opportunity. For all the other meetings I attend where I listen, and focus, and keep my mouth shut, I make up for it in this meeting, extruding the issues from my mind in this venue, out into the stark spotlight. I force myself, and allow myself, to let it flow in this venue, and often am amazed at the stream of consciousness that comes forth.

I find I often will bring up something - whether it be a perspective, an analogy, an approach, or a lesson - to illustrate it for others. And then, a few days later, my own denial thins, and I see I was speaking to myself, bouncing off the mirrors in that room.

I'm always taken aback at this, when it happens, surprised. Surprised at the workings of my subconscious, how dead-on it appears to be at identifying the lynch pin in a pile of nuts and bolts. And how clever it is, that I bring it out for others, where I perceive it as safe, because it's not for me, and then, in a few days, something happens where I get a sort of deja vu experience and I re-hear my own words, and see how they apply to me, and how perfectly suited they are.

And so a funny thing has started to happen, as I have learned this pattern. I now watch, I now listen, to what comes out of my mouth, and I start to pay attention to what I say to others, immediately - begin to look for the real McCoy, in my own journey. It's rather like playing hide-and-seek with oneself, where one is both parties.

One of the reasons we cocoon in denial is security. Denial is at heart the avoidance of pain, I suspect. That which we deny is that which we fear. And often, we fear that which is painful, for whatever reason. We don't want to engage our pain, because we instinctively know we'll have to go through it, to get to the other side, to growth.

Perhaps we fear failure - that we haven't the mettle to succeed at this journey through our pain. Perhaps we fear oblivion - that by leaving behind the known, shedding our old selves through pain, we will be left wondering who we now are. It is painful, getting to essential truths, and also emerging from denial that some of our reality is just a liquid construct, and has no answers but instead is a process rather than a concrete destination.

Because those uncomfortable times when that pain is triggered, and our response in group is a fear-derivative emotion like hurt, anger, or defiance, there's a message strong and clear, in the emotions.

As I'm writing this, I have an inner dialogue playing, arguing which is first, the chicken or the egg: which is the inner-core state and which is the resulting reaction - fear or pain. Perhaps it isn't definable, or perhaps it doesn't matter, just that we understand that the two are inextricably linked. Hell, I don't have the answers; I only have the questions.

But my own experience has shown that when I experience one, the other is present in some form, always. And these fraternal twins invariably point to work that needs to be addressed, in our recovery.

And so in our gutsy group, we are evolving this Truth:

Pay Attention Even When, Especially When, It
Hurts.

Food for thought.

-The Traveler

On A Tale of Two Balls, Part II

Part I: When I play ball with the Germans, it's like playing with two different beasts entirely. One is so like a normie, and one so like an addict. They both have these funny ways of believing things - of making their reality fit their beliefs.

But before we talk about playing ball, and the uncanny lessons in addictive personality traits and behaviors that these guys highlight, let's back up and just have a tour of everyday oddities, with these two.

The Big "W" has full rights, within my household. He's earned them - by being stable, non-destructive, obedient, and a myriad of other pleasing things. He reads my demeanor, and knows what to do, and listens with an uncanny focus.

"A," however, does not have full rights - but it's of his own doing. And he RESENTS this.

Oh, does he harbor resentments.

"A" cannot have run of the whole household because of a variety of reasons. First, I do not want to expand his neurotic-pee-zone into any more of the household carpeting than is necessary. He's gotten a lot better as he's matured, but it still does happen on occasion - perhaps once a month, a small stream of a partial-ounce or so.

But it DOES still happen, and enough is enough. I have to have boundaries - what I will accept, in household hygiene - do I not? (Fortunately, I have a steam cleaner/extractor type machine, or he'd be banished to hard floors ONLY. Oh, and enzymatic cleaner solutions that break down the pee.)

Secondly, "A" does not settle himself.

When he's in a room with a person, he has to stay-in-their-face. He physically rubs against you like a cat, and if you ignore him (which is rather difficult as he's pushing 100 lbs and there's not an ounce of fat on him - I don't believe in fat pets), he inserts his overly-long American-bred snout under your arm and - with surprisingly violent thrust - attempts to dismember the extremity.

Or he paws the edge of the table or desk or couch with a force behind his paw and inch-long claws that can ruin finishes and fabrics.

Or he puts his Kong upon your keyboard, and then gnaws on it, or rolls it with his nose to behind the keyboard, where he'll have to block the keyboard with his big lunk-head as he tries to gnaw it there. He's rather tall, and can look over a table top or desk top - disconcerting if you are having beef for dinner. He knows better than to approach such a delicacy, and stays quiet as I insist on manners in the kitchen, but he'll just stay as close as he dares and breathe on you the entire meal, quietly staring at that meat. He will not go lay down, and settle, as Big "W" does, at mealtime.

Or if you're sitting in a chair, he will literally try to climb into your lap, one forepaw then the other, and then try to shove his wedge-like snout into your - ahem - nether regions, as though he thinks himself a tiny lap dog seeking the comfort of a small corner of space. It doesn't occur to him that his hindquarters are still on the ground. Totally body dysmorphic, "A" is.

And you can't stop him. You can scold him, or physically remove him, or even forcefully shove him away, and his feet stay planted and he bounces right back into position just like a rubber cartoon. Funny, how he's so clever with an extensive arsenal of behaviors to garner attention and get what he wants, but seems to have no IQ whatsoever when I ask him for something I want. Hmmmmmmmmmmm.

So, first thing in the morning, after the Big "W" has awakened me with his bedside ritual, the two of us head down the stairs, where "A" without fail is stationed, front two paws on exactly the first step, the boundary where he is allowed, and no farther.

"A" stands sentry, in this position, awaiting our arrival, each morning. And each morning, he faces the same quandary: seek love and attention from me, or act out on his resentments against the more privileged Big "W."

Inevitably, the same scene plays out, every single day. "W" heads down the stairs in advance of me, and as "W" hits the level of the first step, "A" is there, jaws widely agape, waiting to swallow "W's" head, blocking "W's" descent into the kitchen.

"A" attempts to engulf "W's" head into his mouth, and "W" turns his head sideways, avoiding the annoyance, stepping around the bulky mass of "A's" body, as "A" prances alongside, still trying to swallow "W's" head. It's so comical. "A" is so frustrated by his resentments - no doubt replayed all night long as he sleeps alone downstairs in second-class pack status - that he looks forward each morning to releasing his frustration in this act of defiance toward his higher-ups.

Thank goodness "W" is ego-stable and feels no need to prove himself in the face (pun!) of this annoyance, each and every single morning, like clockwork.

And this has gotten long enough, for today. Stay tuned for Part III.

-The Traveler

On Sometimes, I Just Wanna Play

HQFT: 2 Thousand and 8 Words

We grieve alone,

But we heal in community.

On One Less Leg, to Stand Upon

OK, I got the update on Marlboro Man's son, for those of you wondering. I call the son Heroin Dude.

Marlboro Man took himself back to the Catholic Soccer Mom's Al-Anon group and poured out his update thusly:

Heroin Dude is still in the hospital, on dialysis. They do not know if his kidney function will return or not. He is conscious but sedated and under pain management.

They had to amputate his leg, below the knee.

From what Marlboro Man told me last time I ran into him, it sounds as though the tissue damage Heroin Dude sustained from a funny position while he was passed out caused swelling in the calf.

When this happens, the fascial sheaths (the connective tissue encasements) in the calves are rather unforgiving - they do not stretch- and if the calf muscle tissue tries to swell, it basically chokes off its own blood supply, thereby killing itself. Ergo, the need to amputate.

Stay tuned, for another chapter in Lack-O'-Recovery Soap...

-The Traveler

On Unfair as it Gets

So, I'm talkin' to one of my homies yesterday in the Drunk Church Diner, and he's trying to convince me to go to the shooting range with him after the meeting, which I was unable to do. I'm not sure he believes me that I'm a crack shot. Or, I was, last time I did target shooting, which admittedly was years ago.

The conversation moves on, and he starts (again) razzing me on compulsions, while I'm eating some scrambled diner eggs - they were kinda greasy, but I was hungry. And so we start talking about compulsions and triggers, and I cite to him an interesting blog bit I read recently written by a therapist who cited Buddhist thought in a book she is reading that the way to deal with a compulsion is to sort of loosen up the mind and "make room" for it, to defuse it in the extra space of the mind. This, in contrast to putting a tight mental grip on it, trying to "control" it. Which, in psychological terms, sort of agrees with the "turning over" concept, and why it works, when all else has failed.

compulsions obstruct the path by monopolizing consciousness. the hypnotic fascination they exert prevents us from attending to anything else. we behave like a rabbit dazzled by the headlights of a car. not only do compulsions make us lose sight of our goal, they inwardly paralyze us. to escape their grip does not entail suppressing them but creating a space in which they are freed to let them go and they are freed to disappear.

The conversation drifts then to the results of compulsions - the self-loathing that happens when we fall prey to our compulsions. Homie makes the point that at that point he is forced to stop, and forgive himself before he can go any further. I'm still thinking about this, and I think he's right. The self-loathing is a result of the guilt of having fallen. Or maybe, of being a compulsive type, to begin with. Hmmmmmmmm.

So this morning I'm cruising blogs, and run across this same therapist's blog on types of guilt.

I've always thought I was a thinker in life, but I have to admit this is one topic I have never thought about - what are the different types of guilt. I'm not sure it had ever entered my mind that there are distinct types of guilt.

She breaks guilt into two types, a guilt for what we've done, and a guilt for what we are. In the former, there are external rules upon which we have infringed, and rules how to remedy the guilt, to assuage it. In the latter, there may be rules against what we are, but there is basically no way to assuage it. You're screwed. The what-you-are-is-unacceptable guilt.

Now, any non-mainstream groupie here knows the latter guilt, if only on a subconscious level. Minorities know this guilt. Gays know this guilt. Women know this guilt. Religious fundamentalists know this guilt. A whole lotta people know this guilt. The question then becomes, how does having this what-you-are-is-unacceptable guilt affect our lives?

The thing is, this type of guilt is patently unfair. So it messes with the psyche in a big way. That you are guilty, for something over which you have no control. For being what you are, how you are made. We expect fairness. We expect a rational world.

How on earth do we deal with this? You can bet I'm going to be reading her blog, tomorrow.

I don't have time to go any further with this thinking, at the moment, but I throw it out there, for you to think about, too. It's unfair.

-The Traveler

On A Tale of Two Balls, Part I

Yesterday in the frigid, blustery winds outside, I was playing ball with the Germans. As is its unfortunate habit, the noggin was churning involuntarily as I did so, pulling in material to ponder, and post upon.

You see, I have two Germans. They are vastly different. One is from working German lines, a stellar pedigree in the Schutzhund world and Police dog world. The second is my "12th Step" German, a rescue puppy I took in "to give back to the breed" after decades of hoity-toity Germans in my household.

W is the patriarch, the true German German. He has nerves of steel - nothing phases him - and he's just a great guy. He's calm, doesn't worry about anything, and sometimes I think if I could turn him in to a human I'd discard the rest of the human race and be satisfied, forever.

A is the American-bred neurotic. Don't EVEN get me started on the difference between what the Germans put out, and what the Americans put out. Yeah, I'd like to put them American "breeders" out, alright. But I digress.

W is a gentleman. He could lord it over A, but finds such attitudes tiresome and not relevant. And so he puts up with a lot of shit from A just because he doesn't care. He does not feel the need to prove anything.

A is powerfully neurotic. So neurotic, in fact, that if you look at him wrong, he pees on the spot. On the carpet, that is. Very annoying. Now grant it, A has never seen a spanking or heard an abusive harsh word from me, and I have had him from 5 months of age.

When I evaluated A as a rescue puppy, I determined that he likely was not abused or neglected. His rescue story is that his owner was diagnosed with metastatic liver cancer and had to place the pets due to basically going into terminal treatment, hospice care. There was no whiff in the story or the behavior of A that indicated he had been maltreated.

So I attribute the behaviors of W and A largely to their genetics - their hard wiring. And the differences between them have taught me a lot, the past two years.

Prior to my magnanimity of taking in what I jokingly refer to as my Piece-O-Junk shepherd, all the shepherds I had lived with had come from working German or East German lines. So, while they were all individuals, they were really much more similar than I realized, when it came to working with them. I just needed to tweak an approach to teach them a thing or elicit a behavior I wanted. But in the end, they were similar.

Not so with A. He has proven to be from another planet, and it has taken stubborn me two years and the remark from a casual observer to shake me free from my usual paradigm in order to begin to make progress with him in training.

You see, A is just plain wired differently upstairs than the German Germans. LOL, maybe "wired" isn't the right description, but rather "haywired." And, there ain't NO technique that will make him like them. (Yes, I know that's a double negative when I really need a single negative there, but I'm having a bit of fun here, folks...)

When I play ball with the Germans, it's like playing with two different beasts entirely. One is so like a normie, and one so like an addict. They both have these funny ways of believing things, of making their reality fit their beliefs. But we'll get to that, the next entry or so. Gotta run for now, a busy day ahead...

-The Traveler

On They Know How to Getcha

So today the 2008 onslaught began. Or at least the first wave. The weekly, or perhaps twice weekly, Nashbar catalogue in the mail. Yes, I yam. Yes, I have the calves. Moderate, it's only a 12 mile habit. But hey, it's hilly, where I live.

I even took the opportunity to open the thing and look at the pictures, paying particular attention to the clearance items. Mostly, I just File 13 'em and don't EVEN go there. I know if I look long enough, I'll find something I think I need...

Right after Christmas, at the dawning of a new year, in the dead of winter, after all the holiday gorging, these catalogue folks know we're susceptible. Susceptible to cabin fever. Susceptible to boredom. Susceptible to restlessness. Susceptible to thoughts of springtime dreams, perhaps of touring. I am.

I started training in earnest about two years ago. And in that time, my body has changed. I can feel what's healthy much easier, now. And my body wants it, and is much less interested in junk, and toxins.

It feels awful at first - like you're dying - to get into shape, when you've gone far out of shape. But after you get past that first phase of body-shock, it gets better each day, if you are consistent and keep it up. And one day, you notice it isn't so much work any more, but rather habit.

And the interesting thing about habits is that they calm us. The repetition. The known. The memory.

Recovery is like this.

And it feels good, after you make it a habit. Your body, heart, and mind know it. At least, mine do.

I would wish for you some healthy new habits, in 2008.

No, I didn't order anything. I rarely do, almost never. But I did enjoy all the sleek, colorful pictures, and imagining what it would be like, to buy to my heart's content. Sometimes wanting is a richer experience than having.

- The Traveler

On Discomfort

Human bones have this characteristic that they are living, reactive tissue. We tend to think of them as formed, and static, when in actuality they are ever remodeling themselves.

They display an interesting phenomenon which is that when mechanically stressed, they become stronger. The physical stress of movement causes electic currents within the bone tissue that in turn stimulates the production of more structural bone tissue. It is only by stress that bones become stronger. This is why astronauts get weaker in space - because gravity is not in effect and therefore the bones are not asked to carry weight and stress to the same degree, therefore they weaken.

Each of our recovery paths is like this.

I was in a meeting last night and three words jumped out at me, "Acceptance of Discomfort."

We tend to have ideas, how our recovery should go. How it should progress. What the timing should be for milestones. And we have this fantasy that each day it should get more comfortable. After all, we suffered through a painful bottom, came to understand we had to give up executive control of our lives, so shouldn't it get better, now?

Problem is, we have our own ideas of what "better" and "recovery" should look like. And they don't always mesh with reality, or with what the plan of our HP looks like. We pay lip service to the principle of turning our will and our life over to our God, but most of us lie, and only do it partially, clinging at least to our IDEAS of what should be forthcoming, in our New-Improved-Version-of-Me. Part of that new version is less pain, and more comfort, in our estimation.

But I think God knows that we grow best - are most strengthened - under stress, like bones. And that we may need a good, long time of stress, to get the bones where he wants them - strong enough to be useful for rigorous work. Coming out of our bottoms, most of us are like astronauts returning from a year in space. Not terribly strong.

We, in our impatience, envision an easier way. We think Surrender should be a ticket to comfort, and quickly. That Surrender should open some gate to a magical bypass route around Discomfort. It doesn't occur to us that perhaps our HP will enter us into a lengthy journey of downright suffering AFTER we Surrender, so we grow robust for His work. And clever God, who does a lot of two-for-ones, also wants us to get a good feel for what we missed, avoided, all the time we escaped - how weak and useless those ways really made us.

I'm still thinking about this concept, those three words:

ACCEPT OUR DISCOMFORT

It's one of those things the noggin just isn't sure it wants to incorporate, in our model. That we must do this. Myself included.

Hmmmmmmm.

-The Traveler

On A Heavy Heart

I have a heavy heart, today. Over the past two weeks a lot has happened on the personal side, including a heartbreaking situation wherein I have a ringside seat to someone losing everything they have. They've already lost the big things, the material trappings and such. But now they're faced with the loss of the remnants - those little, last things that are all that's left, when we spin out of control. Housing. Pets. Dignity.

I received an email at 5 am from said person this morning, begging - pleading - for assistance. It hurt, to read. It launched off in me one of those inner battles of selves, one of those go-nowhere, lose-lose dialogues.

The first thing that went through my mind was, "Never do for an addict what they can do for them self," followed by questions of whether I was feeling spiteful, or revengeful.

Said person has been grinding their ass to a pulp, working their sobriety. It's not like they're active in their addictions, which would make the decision cut-and-dried to me. Said person has done everything asked of them, stayed clean, and taken all the shit that comes in early recovery. Said person has turned around and helped others, while in the midst of their own crisis. And I have to feel some compassion, for that.

I considered what assistance I was capable of providing. And then I considered if I should. And from every angle, it was a lose-lose situation. Well, I shouldn't say that. God has a plan for said person and has it apparently in full swing right now, but, damn, it sure is painful to watch in motion, and know I could intervene, to ease the pain.

The question is, should I?

The interesting twist is that said person is my nemesis. There is a hatred, a resentment burning within me that I've spent the past year working my program to deal with. And I will keep going, until the poison is gone. But we have this bizarre sort of relationship, where said person tried to destroy me back then, and I didn't respond as they thought I would, but rather responded with compassion. And so they hang on to me, because I was one of the few back then that had a kind word for them, even in the quagmire of their toxicity, and after their assault.

Said person has told me they hang on to me, because I'm one of the few people who have ever told them they could make it. That I saw through all the carcinogens in their heart, and life, and knew there was a person in there worth the effort of recovery. Believe me, I didn't feel it in my heart when I said it, back then, but I was under strict Executive orders from my HP not to act out my hatred, on another of His. I held my hatred in, and faked it, and will continue to fake it, until I make it to love. I wanted to lash out in hatred, and still do, at times. That's why I work my program so hard, this year, because I know the poison in my heart, and I know I need to rid myself of it, give it over.

Said person had a hard early life. Parents with acute psychotic mental illness and alcoholism. Broken families thrice over on each side, each parent, all re-matches alcoholic and abusive. A bevy of mis-matched, rotating half-siblings and step-parents in and out of their life. Said person endured serial abandonment, physical abuse, and sexual abuse as a child, and later found addictions.

So today, I'm left heavy hearted, trying to decide what to do, and why. If I do not offer assistance, it looks hard-hearted, cold, and revengeful. If I do, it looks manipulative - as though I'll want something in return, my pound of flesh, later. And it would break the cardinal rule against enabling - relieving them of the consequences, but of not only their transgressions, but of their family of origin's.

Grey.

I've spent the day trying to turn it over, asking God what to do. I still don't know.

And so I write about it. And after that, I will listen, carefully, to my HP.

I know God wants me to feel compassion. I'm just not sure what He wants me to do about it.

-The Traveler

On Sometimes, I Fall in Love...

OK, so that's hyperbole, but the point is that when I run across something with what I think has enduring value, I want to program it into my brain to stay. And often that means putting it here in my blog, where I put stuff to come back later and re-ponder it. That's how I personally use my blog, as a filing cabinet of stuff to think about, or stuff I've thought about.

I ran across this piece the other day (link here to source, text below between the asterisks):

(I switched the order of #9 and #10 because Blogger was messing up the formatting when I tried to put the quiz in the middle of ten points.)

While this was written for alcoholism, it applies to any defect via compulsion (a.k.a. addiction).


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10 Truths I Have Learned About Recovery and this Disease of Addiction

I have been around the program for a few 24 hrs and there are some undeniable truths about this disease and recovery that I did not want to accept when I first came around, although I heard it at almost every meeting in some form. Maybe they can help someone.

1. You will not quit until you have had enough. This one sounds so harsh, but like the book states "It finally beat us into a state of reasonableness" I know for this alcoholic it took every treatment center, hospital bed, DUI, pint of blood I threw up, etc to earn my plastic chair.
2. The booze\drugs are not the real problem. No one who has any respect for themselves pounds poisonous chemicals into their body until they slip into oblivion. The booze\drugs were the solution, at least for a while. Booze\drugs could help us escape our miserable existence filled with unhappiness, all derived due to selfishness and self-centeredness.
3. The same man\woman will drink again. If putting down the booze was enough, there would be no need for the 12 steps, meetings, sponsors, or a big book. It is like a knocking rod in your engine. A can of STP oil treatment will quiet the knock for a week or so, but the rod is still bent. A spiritual awakening is required to fix the real problem.
4. No human power could have relieved my alcoholism. Lord knows everyone tried. Judges, lawyers, girlfriends, etc. I have spent my life placing dependence on other people. But because they are human, they will always fail us, just like we failed them. This is where a power greater than myself is required.
5. This is an inside problem with no outside solution. I have always thought, if just had the right girlfriend, band, job, income, blah, blah, then I would not need to drink. I was trying to fill inside holes with outside things. Healing starts on the inside when we work steps two and three. There is a sufficient substitute. It is the fellowship.
6. I am powerless over alcohol, and pornography, and Ben and Jerry’s, and caffeine, etc. My disease changes clothes all the time. The good news is that I recognize it. Look, if it feels good, taste good, looks good, I want more of it. Moderation is not in my vocabulary. But I have tools today that I can use. Sponsor, prayer, meetings, talking to another alcoholic.
7. My life is unmanageable. It does not say my hair is unmanageable, or my checkbook is unmanageable. My life in unmanageable. This means everything. I finally got the guts to fire myself from management and made sure I was marked "no re-hire!" This was really tough to accept. I am so damn self sufficient, enough to get me killed.
8. It is not the caboose on the train that kills you. The craziest thing I have ever done was done sober, and that was to pick up the first one. After the first one, it is two, three, and the next thing you know ol' Jed's a millionaire. It is alcoholism, not alcoholwasm.
9. You must give it away to keep it. Huh? I hated these little quips, like surrender to win!. Arggg. But this is one of the greatest gifts of the spiritual awakening. When I work with other alcoholics, I feel whole, useful, and like I am doing God's work. It is indescribable. When I first heard this I said "hooey"! Man was I wrong.
10. I cannot think myself out of this disease. It says this many times in the big book.

My sponsor gave me a test. It goes like this:

Self knowledge avails me:

A). Everything I have ever wanted.

B). Half the s#it I needed.

C). Jack s*it.

Being too smart for this program will get you killed.

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Sometimes, I just appreciate other people's perspectives, and like to ponder them instead of the stuff in my own head. I think the wisdom of others is the Spiritual Awakening of Step 12 (or, that happens, so we get to Step 12), i.e., the miracle of That Which Would Not Happen Apart From a Higher Power's Influence - to hear stuff like this come forth. OK, let's split that miracle out. That it came forth, from an addict. And, that I heard it. Two-part miracle. God's a funny, clever guy, good at leveraging. LOL!

My personal favorites from this:

• The booze\drugs are not the real problem.
• This is an inside problem with no outside solution.
• My disease changes clothes all the time.
• The craziest thing I have ever done was done sober, and that was to pick up the first one.
• I finally got the guts to fire myself from management...

What strikes you, from this? Or, what would your list be?

-The Traveler