I sat down on the couch this evening after making lunches for the week with my husband. He had jazz piano playing softly in the background; I sank into it and the fluffy blanket draped across the couch. We have an amazing view of Portland. It really is the highlight of our apartment. It sweeps the skyline uninterrupted, the twinkling city lights illuminating the skyscrapers which would otherwise be lost in the dark forested hills behind them. It’s breathtaking.
I got lost in the view. My bones felt saturated with the goodness only a fulfilling Sunday can bring. Moments like this acknowledge the young girl I once was when I see some of her dreams as the reality draped in front of me. Despite the magnetic pull I felt to stay in this moment, a tiny something inside me told me I should write.
I unearthed my writing and sketchpad from the depths of our ottoman/storage box. I felt quite uninspired. I strung words together in a measly attempt to capture the romance of the evening, wanting instead to daydream it away. I dated the top of the page, as I often do. 11/5. I almost wrote “11/6”, and as I corrected myself, that date rang out to me. November 6th of 2016 I had taken another swing at sobriety. It didn’t stick. I broke my streak for an office Christmas party a month and a half later.
November 5th of 2016, this day last year, I was at a bar with three of my male coworkers. One of them would become my husband, though neither of us knew it at the time. It was just another night out for me, drinking too much and making thoughtless choices. My coworkers eventually peeled off, but not before my now-partner and I got into a little, innocent tiff. I wasn’t always a considerate friend back then. I ended up talking to a guy at the bar for a few hours more until he let it conveniently slip that he had a girlfriend.
Oh, dejected I was. More of the same. Nothing changes if nothing changes.
The next day I vowed I’d make a change. I wanted something more. I knew alcohol would never deliver to me anything but sorrow. It wouldn’t last this time, but the next time I set my sights on sobriety it stuck.
So here I sit on November 5th, a year after that attempt. I haven’t had a drink in eight months. I feel healthy: mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually. I’m sitting wrapped in my favorite blanket, my sweet husband across from me, the skyline of Portland the backdrop of our evening. Life has changed. Oh, has it changed me. Life is rich. Life is good.
It is mysterious in its purpose as it weaves my existence, toiling over details and cultivating meaning.
I do not try to understand it anymore. I am in awe of it. I accept it. I ask for more of it.
I feel saved. I have grown; I have molted. I am blessed to be aware in my journey.
Life is rich. Life is good. Life gives us second chances. Life gives us beautiful views.