It’s 4 o’clock Friday afternoon. I’ve been on deadline all week and, man, am I pooped. I spent the day (after filing my story) cleaning up my e-mail and trying to clean up the inside of my head. I think, you know, that I must be really, really tired. I have a tendency to push myself to keep going. The more I get done, the more there seems to be that I want to do or try.

My office at work has a window. I sit facing it. with my back to the door and, as I have a very friendly back, nobody takes offense at this. I look out onto a scraggy patch of grass with a scraggy fringe of wood behind it. Charlie hung a bird feeder on a pole outside the window, and I keep red rubber garden shoes in my office so that when I fill the bird feeder and scatter seeds on the ground, I don’t track mud onto the carpet. (My mama would be proud!) I think of my scraggy grass patch as Martha’s Nature Preserve.

Okay, so I’m sitting here, staring at my computer screen, working my tired self into a frenzy thinking about what I can get done before going to a 5:30 meeting. Then I look up and there on the ground is a flame-red cardinal, pricked by afternoon sunlight. He is so beautiful, and I’m so lucky have an office with a window through which I can see him.

Something in me relaxes. You know, I decide, I’ve earned a break from my usual state of driven productivity.

I’m thinking now about shutting off my computer in a few minutes and heading out to get a cup of coffee before my meeting. There’s a little shop close to the church in which we gather. Who knows? I might see some sober friends there.

I could tell them about seeing that cardinal and relaxing and they would understand.

“Underneath the fume and fuss, Life is just asparagus.”

I wrote it years ago, but don’t you think it soooooo describes a sober attitude???

. . . even though I thought it was just a great game–everything, that is, except the outcome. I did want the New England Patriots to achieve perfection since that is denied to the rest of us humans.

What I want to write about is the novel experience of stability. Before I got sober my life was tumult on two feet. Without drugs and alcohol, I’ve managed to live with the same guy for fifteen years, have the same job for 8, the same cats for over a decade, and live in the same house for 5 years. And I have no plans, at all, to change any of the above. I guess this is just what happens when one doesn’t drink or use, partners with H.P., goes to meetings, and keeps on Stepping.

When I was drinking and using I wouldn’t have been able to tolerate so much tranquility. I would have had to do something to shake things up, cause a little chaos, do a little damage, inflict a little pain, get that edgy feeling back. Instead of living a life that actually does feel pretty happy, joyous and free, I would have had to go after a life that felt angry, despairing, and self-destructive. Happy, joyous, and free would have seemed way to boring when I was slow-dancing with Bourbon.

Of course, I sometimes miss the edge. I guess I’m lucky in that I get to flirt with it professionally–meeting deadlines definitely kicks the old adrenalin flow up a notch. But I do not miss at all the knowledge that how I live damages other people. Nor do I miss feeling of spiritual isolation that came with my drinking.

It’s a rainy Monday. I’ve got a lot on my plate today. I’ll get done what I can, then, the end of the day, I’ll go gratefully home to the same old man, old cats, old house. And shout hallelujah for them all!

If this is sobriety, bring it on!

What’s new? I’m really, really, really busy at work. But, as this is my day to lift weights and prance atop the elliptical for 30 minutes, you know what I’m going to do right now?

Go to the gym, that’s what.

I came to the realization long ago that my head stays as sober as my body stays fit. May not be true for everyone, but it is only too true for me. Going to the gym on busy days such as this one is just another of the lengths I must go to to stay sober.

Time to stop blogging and start sweating!

You know, weekends are easy for me. I hang out at home with Charlie, together we give the house its weekly cleaning, the two of us socialize a little with friends or do some relaxed shopping or maybe have a Sunday lunch date, I do my own writing and play with the cats. If there’s any stress involved, it comes only from my own propensity to manufacture it. And I’ve been sober long enough to recognize manufactured stress for what it is and give it the boot.

The problem with weekends is that they end. Now I love my job–really. I would almost pay to do the broadcast journalism I have the luxury of getting paid to do. But my job’s stresses are real, and they hit me the minute I hit the office. I have to work to keep my head from become dysfunctionally buzzy–and any person in recovery knows exactly what I mean by that!

Now this anti-buzzy-head work is, to me, different from any other kind of work I do. All the rest of my work requires effort–I have to do things to get it done. Anti-buzzy-head work simply requires me to relax in Alice’s company (Alice being the affectionate name of my partner in life, God). My partnership with Alice–formed over years of sobriety–allows me to get through days in functional emotional ways that I never could manage on my own. And keeping an un-buzzy head in the face of journalism’s deadlines is certainly one of those functional emotional ways.

Sobriety, in my opinion, rocks!

. . .not in the program, but a fellow writer. We had lunch, talked about writing and life, and I felt as comfortable in her company as I do in my own (which is, in itself, a gift of sobriety). One of the great wonders of sobriety to me is that I’m able to let myself simply like someone, without either making the relationship complicated or else worrying about what the other person might be thinking about me. In other words, I pretty much assume these days that if I like someone, the feeling is mutual.

My goodness, it feels good to be open to people without fear.

Yesterday was a beautiful day for both one big, important professional reason and many small, cozy personal reasons. The big, important reason was that I had an essay published on the “Lives” page of The New York Times Magazine about which I allowed myself to be flat-out thrilled. The small reasons were that Charlie and I celebrated by eating a big, unhealthy breakfast at a diner, having an orgy of football watching, and baking bread. Oh, and my daughter called, and we had our usual lively weekly chat.

Here’s the deal for me about wonderful things that happen. When I was drinking and using I got high on them–I needed wonderful things going on constantly to keep me feeling that I was somebody. I suppose I was, in some ways, addicted to wonderful things as well to alcohol and pills. I had no ability to sustain good feelings while having simple, normal, regular, pleasant days. I only felt as good as everyone else’s opinion of me, which meant I was constantly having to figure out what wonderful thing I could do next so that other people would think I was worth the space I took up in this sweet, old world.

Today–sober for quite a few 24-hours–I love plain, old, normal, pleasant days, just for being plain, old, normal pleasant days. I suspect today will be one of those days. I plan to get some work done, go to the gym, look after my ailing cat, and eat some more of that good bread. I don’t expect anything spectacular to happen.

Of course, I’m still thrilled about being in The New York Times. It’s a thrill I expect to enjoy in retrospect for a long time, without feeling the slightest need to repeat it.

None. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero.

However, today it was not because I was avoiding it, but because other stories took priority. As a sober person, I have learned to prioritize, particularly when what I put first is more interesting.

You can’t hear tone of voice in posts, but hopefully you’ve realized that the above is delivered with my tongue firmly in my cheek. Sobriety has also made it so much easier to laugh at myself.

I came into work this morning determined to focus on a story I’ve been neglecting, because it involves hours of tape transcription, and this, to me–Ms. Flibbertigibbe–qualifies it as the current Big Yuck! Then the phone started ringing, someone dropped by, a couple more interesting story possibilities reared their enticing heads, and here I am at 5 p.m. with not much done on the Big Yuck.

So, what does this have to do with sobriety. Progress, not perfection, that’s what! At least I’m willing and able to recognize my own journalistic shortcomings, instead of fooling around with the kind of stupid excuses for them that used to fool no one except me.

Tomorrow, as Scarlett O’Hara put it so well, is another day. The Big Yuck isn’t going anywhere. I will post an update on my actual progress at making myself work on it tomorrow.

I’ve been passionately, emotionally involved with the yearly doings of the Washington Redskins (American football for those of you who ignore sports) since the 1950’s. Pop, you see, had only sisters and only daughters; and, as the younger of the latter, it became my thing to watch–and play–sports with him.

Eddie LeBaron, the Little General, led the team back then–mostly to nowhere. In truth, except for two bright epochs under George Allen in the ’70’s and Joe Gibbs first tenure (’81 through ‘92), the Redskins have not done very well. Some years, in fact, they’ve been terrible.

But my passionate hope, belief, and loyalty to this team-as well as my forgiveness of its screw-ups–has never wavered. What I felt for the Redskins was for years, I think, the closest I came to unconditional love. After all, loving a football team was a pretty safe thing to do. The most hurtful thing it could do to me was lose a game or blow a season. When I was drinking and using, however, loving people was a pretty fearsome thing, and so I’m not sure I ever loved them quite as unconditionally as I loved the Redskins.

Sobriety has changed me. The more solid, less fearful I become as a person, the less concerned I am about getting hurt. Loving someone else now feels like a gift in itself. As for fear, most of the time I know down to my toes that as long as I don’t drink or use and I keep working those Steps, I’m going to be just fine, and so I have nothing to be afraid of. As sober time passed, I also noticed that once I took fear out of my heart, love just moved on in and made itself at home.

So, life is richer and better and more interesting today, because I’m no longer afraid to let go and love others pretty much unconditionally. Others, that is, along with the Redskins. . .

I just got back from my niece’s wedding in California. As I live in Virginia, that means my brain is still somewhere over Kansas. But who cares, for yy heart, –wherever it is–is very happy.

Here’s the deal: When I got sober I got my family back. It took time, patience and plentiful amends. It took letting past grudges go and giving up worrying about who was to blame for anything. It took recognition on some profound level that while none of us are perfect, we all have done the best we can.

This was the moment for me at that wedding. We’re all on the dance floor when Sister Sledge launches into “We Are Family.” I raise my arms in concert with my daughter and my sister and my nieces, and we all sing and dance together.

I’ve spent this morning in a frenzy of multi-tasking as it was both my first day back at work after winter holidays and my last day at work before I fly to California for a family wedding. So, I found myself doing such things as simultaneously reserving a seat on the Super Shuttle and posting an essay to my station’s automation system.

I was off for ten whole days and it was wonderful. I wrote, yakked with my family, played with my cats, worked out at a leisurely pace, watched a lot of football (go Redskins!), read books for pleasure, and–most wonderful of all–occasionally did nothing. Life was soooooooo peaceful and laid-back.

That ended, of course, at nine this morning. And even though the trip to California is technically a vacation, the pace of the next few days will be anything but laid-back. But you know what I realize and wanted to share? Thanks to sobriety and years of working the Twelve Steps, I may lose the laid-back reality, but I won’t lose the laid-back feeling that comes with it–or at least I won’t lose it all of the time. Add if I do lose it in the pressure of deadlines, I’ll know how to get it back

To me, one of the greatest gifts of sobriety is being able to deal with the frenzy of life without having it morph into the frenzy of soul.

Happy, peaceful, New Year, my friends.

On my third try—after a long lay-off—I got marriage right. Charlie and I have been together for fifteen years, and I don’t hesitate to say we are happy.

The two of us own land in the middle of a logging forest in Amherst County, and this year our tax assessment jumped an alarming 250%. Charlie got up at five this morning to drive down, meet with the county tax assessor and politely ask why. Then he’s going to chainsaw some downed trees into firewood. He plans to be home about dark.

Here’s the deal: with happiness comes the possibility of the loss of happiness. I’ve felt fear of such a loss hovering in the back of my psyche ever since Mr. Charles drove off this morning, giving me thumbs-up out his truck’s driver-side window. So, it’s going to take some work, but to honor my faith in both HP and my sober state, I will spend this day trusting that Charlie will be just fine.

Fear, I’ve long thought, is the devil’s voice. There are lots of really healthy things that cannot live in the same heart with it, and one of those is sobriety! So, Mr. Fear, Kapow!!@##!!! Take that!! I will live today in a state of trust.

And I’ll make sure the candles in the window are lit before the sun goes down.

A couple of months ago, I was having a rare, terrible day at work. I was annoyed at everyone, overwhelmed with everything I had to get done, and in general in full-blown eek mode.

I also had to get in my car and drive somewhere. My thoughts, of course, ran something like this: I’m never going back to that stinking rat hole of a public radio station again! Never!!!!!

I was not in the mood for my current book-on-tape, so I turned on the radio and pushed the scan button. The numbers flipped upward and then, all of a sudden, Johnny Paycheck was singing “Take This Job and Shove It!” God Bless America, but was that glorious a sing-along-moment or what?

I didn’t sing along along, however; I bellowed along.

The song ended. There was a short pause and then . . .

Johnny Paycheck relaunched into “Take This Job and Shove It!” And he did it again and again and again. Whatever automation system that radio station was using had gotten stuck!

Naturally, I was shortly again re-delighted with life. Problems? What problems?

I don’t really believe that God does specific things for people. But if God did mess directly in people’s lives, I have to believe one of the things the Almighty might do is help us keep our sense of humor when we’re mad at the world. It doesn’t hurt to have a little divine assistance when it comes to taking ourselves less seriously.

I hate cold weather. Hate it! Hate it! Hate it! Always have; always will. So, naturally, I was outraged yesterday when it snowed. And, of course, since I live in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, the wind whistled and roared, as well.

I started shivering yesterday as soon as I got out of bed. It only got worse when I got to work as my office sits at about 63 degrees. So, I spent the morning trying to concentrate on editing a story while wearing two sweaters and a scarf, and, naturally, feeling grumpier and grumpier. I simply could not get warm!

Outside my window, the snow continued to fall. The wind continued to howl. Obviously, the weather was not going to take a turn toward my liking.

So. . .

For lunch, I motored over to my favorite slice joint to warm up with mozzarella and marinara, supported by a perfectly-baked pizza crust of just the proper thickness. Next, to ensure that my newfound warmth would last a while, I took myself off to the gym for a good 30-minute session on the elliptical and another 30 minutes of lifting weights.

To me, sobriety has been a lot about a willingness to let my life get better. The truth is, that if I were still drinking and using, I probably would have just stayed cold and grumpy.

Last night I was at a wonderful party held upstairs at my favorite restaurant in Charlottesville, Virginia, a town in which I used to live when I was still drinking and using. The restaurant has still got the same understatedly elegant ambiance, the food is still just as creatively respectful of its high-quality ingredients as I remembered, and I’m sure the wine that went around was still just as carefully and knowledgeably chosen as ever.

I wore my black floaty pants (which I love and never get to wear) and a pair of new black, open-toed heels (a real rarity in my closet), let my hair fly loose, and, in general, felt as though I were looking good for an old broad.

The dinner was for public radio people from all over the state of Virginia, so the conversation was wide-ranging—so wide-ranging that for a little while it settled on God. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before. I’m working hard on a new book on how to partner with God (or H.P. or Allah or Alice) without allowing language and social custom to limit the power of that partnership in our lives. Thinking about H.P. so intensively has made me realize that all I, myself, really know about the God is that God is. And I know this, not through thought, reason, or teaching, but because somewhere in my muddled trudge through the Twelve Steps, I became a person of faith.

I talked about all this last night. People were interested, asked questions, offered their own thoughts and experiences with faith. It was a nice conversation that eventually moved on to other topics; yet, all evening, I felt the blessings of my partnership with God (aka, for me, Alice) as I sat eating, talking, listening, enjoying myself—not as an out-of-control wild-woman, but as a regular person having an uncomplicated, nice time at a holiday gathering.

Who knew? When I was growing up, I never dreamed my greatest satisfaction in life at age 60 would be to have partnered with a Higher Power in becoming a regular person.

Well, that and looking good in black floaty pants.

When I was drinking and using, I was also doing and going all the time. You know that FedEx ad “Overwhelmed” where the guy just can’t slow down. He sits there at a completely empty desk shouting “Worky work! Busy Bee!” That was me back then. That is, whenever I could make myself get out of bed.

Looking back, I think I channeled the Energizer Bunny mostly to keep from facing how alone I felt. Not was, necessarily, but felt. As an active substance abuser, I had no comfort in my own company and so had nothing real to give back to offers of friendship.

I began working the Steps because I was terrified of my own future. It was through their simple magic and the good grace of HP (whom I chose to call Alice), that first my head and then my life got real. That’s a pretty loose description of recovery, but if you’re in it as well, I think you’ll know what I’m getting at.

These days I find great pleasure in such simple things. For example, I have a birdfeeder outside my office window, and I also scatter seeds on the ground. This morning, as I watched birds, squirrels, and bunnies feeding on the bounty of what I think of as Martha’s Nature Preserve, I had a sudden blast of that peaceful, easy feeling the Eagles first sang about oh-so-many years ago.

That feeling, to me, is one of sobriety’s greatest gifts.

When I hit bottom and bounced into sobriety, I was soooooo broke I needed professional help to untangle my finances. Mostly through cutting up my existing credit cards and not getting new ones for a couple of years, I finally managed to zoom up to a net worth of zero. In other words, I got out of debt. It was a day Alice (my personal name for HP) and I did some serious, spiritual high-fiving!

I have plastic again, but I use it advisedly—credit card for any travel that needs a reimbursement record or a tax trail; debit card for daily life. As a result of long-term sober spending habits, I almost own a house, do own a couple of non gas-hogging cars, and have some savings. And, more importantly, I have a sense of internal order about finances and life in general.

And, you know, I don’t miss spending a lot of money I don’t have the way I used to when I was still using. For example, it’s the beginning of holiday party season. I’m married to a recluse, but I occasionally sashay out on my own, and I still have a hard time going to a party in last years clothes (progress, not perfection is all I’ll ever claim, in the fashion department). So just last week, I took myself and my debit card to this great store I’ve discovered in a funky part of town that sells gorgeous clothes at about 1/20^th of their retail value. After about twenty minutes of rummaging, I found the most gorgeous pair of kind of floaty black pants at 75% off the already reduced price.

When I was using, I would have marched into some high-priced, designer-ish shop, added to my debt load, and left with a leaden, sock-in-the-stomach feeling that such out-of-control behavior always delivered.

Does sober life rock on all levels, or what?

I’m a woman who’s been Twelve Stepping for almost two decades. Honesty is right at the core of my recovery.

Before Recovery, it took me a long time to realize that what I’d made up and called “my life” wasn’t really all that much fun. After I entered Recovery, it still took me years to peel back the layers of dicey explanations I’d used to excuse all those screwy things I’d done that hadn’t worked, and that hadn’t make me, or anyone else, happy. The first thing I had to recognize was the fact that I’d been a spin-doctor for years. And why not? I had a self-image to maintain — culturally, intellectually, emotionally — that often conflicted with reality. So, even though I didn’t lie all that much to the rest of the world, I lied to myself a lot. I also had an ingrained habit of unconsciously blaming circumstances or other people for actions of mine that I wasn’t comfortable with. So when I eventually ran into Step One, being honest with myself about myself was about as foreign to me as being a man. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. With being a man, I that is.

I’m still Stepping, still Recovering, but good golly! real life is so much more fun than the La-La Land I used to inhabit.

On this Thanksgiving, I am an American who is flat-out awash in gratitude.

It’s a visceral feeling, a toe-tingling twang through mind, body, and spirit. And what I’m most grateful for is that today is so much like yesterday was and tomorrow will be: pretty durn normal. Today, so far, has been productive and pleasant. I’ve given and gotten a few hugs, done a little work and a little cooking, and—so-far—been able to shoo away those pesky Devilettes (with names like Resentment, Annoyance and Jealousy) before they’ve had time to sink their claws into my psyche.

I just want to say that you old-timers were right, when you told me all those years ago that if I didn’t drink and went to meetings, everything would get better. Once in a while I still try to figure out how my screw-up life got to be so good, but most of the time I just enjoy it. As Van Morrison put it so well: It ain’t why, why, why, why, why; it just is.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Feast well on sobriety!