I don’t know if the weather could match my mood more perfectly; dreary, drab, muddy. I want to say it has rained nonstop for a month but that would be quite the exaggeration. Feels like it, though.
We are coming to the end of our first winter here at Sunnyside Up. It is all a discovery. It is also very wet. It doesn’t take much rain to turn our yard into a muddy mess. We have plans for this so I remind myself this will not last forever. Nothing does.
Deep breath in. Slow breath out.
I am unsettled. This is not unusual. I get this way often and for different reasons. Sometimes the reason goes unknown. Restless.
If this were 103 days ago, you would probably find my opening a bottle of wine to dull the inner turmoil.
I’ve been alcohol free for 103 days.
One hundred three days of learning to befriend the perturbation that pumps through my veins without warning. One hundred three days of opening the door of inquiry to the knock of inquietude.
What is the message you are bringing me? Where did you come from? I see you.
I have no desire to drink tonight. That is not a concern. The more I write, the less I think about drinking or numbing out or wasting time. The less I want to borrow from tomorrow for a buzz today.
I set alcohol aside because something unseen was pressing my heart.
You are meant for more! Don’t miss this!
The more I tried to ignore it, the louder it became. Spirit whispers until she screams.
My parents would call this God. I agree. I just have a different perception of God. But, yes, God. Spirit. The Great Unseen. I had to put the weekly bottle down.
She (‘she’ meaning God) then pressed upon my heart, “Write.” And so, I did.
And here I am, 103 days later, writing mediocre at best. Writing my feelings, writing poems, journaling daily. Writing a shitty rough draft. Pen to page every day.
The more I do it, the less I want to go back. I am being guided somewhere. A passenger of faith.
And so, I sit here, pen to page, while chaos stirs within. I think to myself, I cannot be the only one. Surely, another woman is out there sitting sober in her muck, too. What would I like to say to her? What message do I send, trusting the Great Unseen will make sure the message finds its way?
The message: The practice is in loosening the grip. Stay open. Let it in. Let it flow. Let it go.
In Love, Mel P.
Nurse on the Go 