Butterfly

This morning I am grateful for the road behind me. All of it. The tools I gathered, the people I met, the places I loved, the clever ways I coped and wrangled my hurts before I really knew them. I’m grateful for the hard times, the struggles, the betrayals. I’m grateful to my mom, whose anger and eviction have turned, with the gift of hindsight, into a gift. I’m grateful for The Girl, whose standards for what she expects in a partner unearthed wounds and fears I may never have looked in the face. I’m grateful for the small moments of grace that have punctuated the path. All of this, I’m learning, is the humus of my life, the thick rich soil from which something new can grow.

I went for a long sunrise walk this morning with my first recovery sponsor. My homie Luke. We haven’t talked in about four months, not since I fell off the face of the earth into my latest depressive spiral. We caught each other up on the happenings of our lives while we trudged up the steep, quarter mile ridge that we’ve semi-affectionately named “Death Hill.” Sweaty and panting as we reached its summit, victorious, as the sun arose behind the Rincon mountains. It felt like a return to my early days of recovery, Luke and I playing pickleball out in the Tucson winter sun with a handful of friends and fellows. I came home, dead tired but full, and went to meditate out on my balcony in the early morning sun. I basked in the birdsong. I won’t live in this lovely part of town much longer, but I plan to enjoy it fully until I move next month. I am grateful for this place. For all that it has given me, and continues to give.

I have a habit of disregarding my past, of obsoleting everything that came before, that shaped me, that brought me to the present moment. It’s a symptom of my fear, my insecurity, and my black and white thinking. Nothing that came before, none of the tools, relationships, practices, places, none of them left me feeling okay, and therefore I’ve lived in constant pursue the new, the novel. But these past few weeks, I find myself reaching back into my story, and finding exactly what I need in any given moment. Sure I’ve tried every form of meditation and prayer under the sun, but did I ever commit in a way guided by loving devotion, rather than fearful, transactional “fix me” thinking? I think not. This flavor of commitment is a missing ingredient in everything I’ve tried along the way. With that other flavor, there’s only so long you can go to war with yourself before some part of you crumbles, and another launches a vicious counteroffensive. The tools are there, and they are numerous. But what I’m finding is that gentle, loving commitment changes them in some fundamental way. Meditating from a place of love is a different activity than meditating to fix oneself. I’m finally starting to learn it.

Butterflies are a natural feature of the landscape here in Tucson. When I’m out walking, sometimes I’ll gaze at one floating gracefully along with the soft desert wind. And then I’ll consider how it came to be, its process from caterpillar to cocoon, and the complete dissolution of all that it once was, a literal melting into goo before being reconstituted into beauty and elegance. What a tremendous act of trust, to let the powers of life take all the raw ingredients that have made you what you are, and form them into something new, something which you could never imagine, let alone strategize your way into. Something is happening over here since the start of the year. Something subtle and well beyond my narrow will. All the raw ingredients are coming together in new ways. Feels like a matter of time before I take flight.