The moon was gorgeous tonight. Nearly full, I think. Just the slightest sliver missing from its lower left corner.
The air was unusually warm for September.
After the school run and dinner I practiced flexibility exercises, outside, thanks to inspiration from NoMoreBeer2019, a new-to-me blogger from France, now living in North America (hi again Anne!). She’s part of an alcohol-free community which “make(s) you book a physical challenge so you’re working towards a goal and have a “reason” to stay sober.” Her challenge, she’s decided, will be re-learning to do handstands. Mine, I decided, after a quick ponder in her comment section :)), will be achieving full lotus position.
I YouTubed “full-lotus” tonight and learned that it requires hip-flexibility practice more than anything. So I did the recommended stretches, out on the badminton area, while the boys hover-boarded, biked and scooted back and forth past me at high speeds.
I’ve nowhere near the flexibility required to do the full lotus, but if I practice these exercises for about 10 minutes per day, maybe by the one-year sobriety-mark I might have it.
Who knows. Not me. I’m hereby promising to do my best, one day at a time, nothing more nothing less. ;)) 🧘🏼♂️
Our kitchen rear wall is pale golden blue, since I painted it; it gives me great pleasure to see it every time I walk in the door from outside. The floor is worn, ages old, everyone thinks it’s diamond-pattern large tiles, but it’s actually a stamped concrete. It was like that, but all dark and soot-stained grey, when we moved in. I cleaned it and painted it alternating cream and rust-red, inspired by Monet’s kitchen. Now the rust-red has been repainted in “ocean cloud,” but still, since that last painting, completely distressed by footfall, so the rust-red also shows through in patches, as does the original dark grey concrete.
I could look at it and say it’s shabby, or I could look at it and say it’s incredibly beautiful. Time has made it so.
I sat outside, listening to — though not watching — the three younger boys play a scooting “police” game, as I sat knitting my “serenity shawl,” as I’m now calling it; my pint of cool tap water in front of me on low glass table. I marvel at the patio, row upon row of pavers that we laid ourselves at the end of this winter.
I have to admit I felt sad. We have this huge, gorgeous patio now. All this lovely stylish lawn furniture I’ve managed to collect during bargain sales. But now that we have all this, at last, the friendships have petered out; there will be no more parties. That’s how my melancholy self sees it. I don’t have energy enough to plan parties with former drinking buddies, while sober. That’s how it feels at this point in these still-early days.
No more loud music, no more shouting with laughter, no more sound of wine or pastis being poured into glasses, no more sound of lighters striking up the ends of cigarettes, no more sound of the fire crackling, the sound of my drunken guitar playing, the sound of my friend and me singing, the sound of my husband shouting raunchy jokes and hooting with laughter with my friend’s man, no more sound of what seemed like masses of neighbourhood children all jumping together on the trampoline…
I see it all with nostalgia, that dangerous pair of rosé-coloured glasses.
But there’s a deeper story to this. The friendship was experiencing difficulties before my sobriety began. I believe that the problem was partly fuelled by alcohol. From both sides of the neighbourhood “fences.”
Sometimes, in my weaker moments, I feel like sobriety has killed my old friendships and all my wild fun. But I don’t believe that’s truly the case, when I look deeper. Any friendships that seem dimmed in the light of my sobriety must have in fact already been occluded by alcohol. Had perhaps even been fuelled, in the very first place, mostly by alcohol. And fun is now found in more serious ways. This moment, here now, is rewarding, for me.
I’m a bit down on myself, these days, because my life hasn’t suddenly become perfect. I’ve been really tired. A little lost in my sense of direction. Sometimes I feel I was higher-functioning while drinking. But I know that isn’t actually true. I was just as lost then, if not more so. Life just raced past faster, in the drinking days. And it would have raced to a sooner end as well, I’m quite sure.
I give myself the gift of time, to become truly beautiful with age. I guess I will say that I am okay as I am for now.