GRACE LAND

I have these moments in life that I think of as “peak moments” – small experiences that may be insignificant and brief, but they touch my heart so profoundly that I know I will carry them with me always. I treasure my “peak moments”. They’re very personal, hard to explain, and I rarely speak about them. They are those “you had to have been there deals” that just don’t translate into words. I play them back like little movies sometimes, when I need comfort or renewed hope, or just to remind myself of how rich life can be sometimes.

I had a “peak moment” last week. My daughter was down from Seattle for seven days. She’s lived up north for three years now and we still suffer from separation anxiety. We talk daily and live this kind of calendar limbo thing where we count the months between trips. I think when we are finally together emotions run high. We’re happy, we’re sad, we share stuff, and we talk talk talk. If you’ve read any of my previous posts about her http://megmoran.blogspot.com/2007/01/pandoras-box.html or http://megmoran.blogspot.com/2007/03/uncle-randy.html then you know that she has had some challenges to face. She has had even more, but I wouldn’t write about her “stuff”. When she arrived this time she was dragging with her a bruised ego and broken heart, one of the worst I’ve ever seen. I wanted to hug her pain away. She’s also at a point in her life where she has some real important choices to make about her future. But oh, that pain………funny how when our hearts are broken we question and second guess everything – all of our choices.

So, back to that peak moment. We were on our way out to dinner, driving down the freeway. It’s late, its dark and the colored lights of businesses are flying by. My car is small and we’re sitting side by side, she’s not saying much. I punch on the radio and Paul Simon comes on singing Graceland. I reached over and took her hand, we listened to the lyrics and we drove on. That’s it. That’s my peak moment. See? I told you they don’t translate into words.

The song is about a guy whose wife has left him and he is broken hearted, so he is going to Graceland. His traveling companions are “ghosts and empty sockets”. He sings about a girl in New York City who calls herself the human trampoline. And I know my daughter feels exactly like that girl. But then he says when she’s falling, flying tumbling in turmoil she’s bouncing into Graceland. Graceland? I don’t think he’s talking about a place in Memphis. He’s talking about when you bottom out Grace saves the day. Finally he says there’s some part of me wants to see Graceland. And I may be obliged to defend every love, every ending or maybe there’s no obligations now. Maybe I’ve a reason to believe we all will be received In Graceland.

I thought about God’s Grace. How grace is always there for me and will always be there for her. I think Graceland is everywhere. I know I felt it last week on the 91 freeway.

Pill Anonymous

I hated all the hoopla when Anna Nicole Smith died. The media circus was hardly tolerable. Sometimes I feel ashamed to even own a TV when coverage is so crude. But current events have caught my interest. Apparently Ms. Smith’s doctors are being held accountable for her death. Prosecutors allege that they "repeatedly and excessively furnished thousands of prescription pills to Anna Nicole Smith, often for no legitimate medical purpose." Now this is HUGE news, BIG HEADLINES. Anna Nicole Smith was after all a celebrity.

For the people at the Wednesday night Pills Anonymous meeting in Anaheim the news of Anna Nicole Smith’s overdose was not headline stuff. We didn’t even blink. We’ve buried friends. And doctors supplied our pills. Repeated and excessively.

Pill addiction is insidious. People don’t talk about it, but most know someone who is taking just a “few” too many benzos or opiates to manage their anxiety or pain. It’s one of those underground addictions that are hard for loved ones to gauge, especially confusing because prescriptions are written by doctors.

We know. We’ve been there. The Pills Anonymous introduction (read at the beginning of every meeting) says in part:

Although we have subjected ourselves to substances every bit as powerful as street drugs, our “Dealers” — sometimes knowingly, often unwittingly — were physicians and pharmacists, so we have usually had to commit few, if any, crimes to obtain our “fix.” Insurance companies often paid for at least part of our abuse. Our illegitimate activities were usually limited to acts which illustrate our astounding capability for deceit, such as getting prescriptions from multiple doctors simultaneously, stealing medications from our friends’ and family’s medicine cabinets, and occasionally forging prescriptions. We memorized the contents of the Physicians’ Desk Reference (PDR) so that we could precisely describe symptoms that elicited the prescription we craved. And above all, we hid our pills and our conniving not only from those who know us but, by denial and delusion, from ourselves.

The people who come to Pills Anonymous are just like the people who reach out to any other 12 step fellowship. We come together once a week to support each other, and work a program of recovery from using pills addictively. According to the SAMHSA Health Information Network one-third of all U.S. drug abuse is prescription drug abuse. And yet there are usually only about 10 people at our meeting. At the end we have a moment of silent prayer for the addict still suffering out there. I know there are a lot of them. I’m so sorry it is too late for Anna.

Addict Cats

Well now we know where they go at night ..... and why they have such a bad attitude in the morning

God Does Not Have Ears

I’ve always been fascinated by prayer beads. I don’t have any, but some of my friends do, and I have a blogging friend http://www.twelvebeads.com/ who makes beautiful beads, and someday I’ll indulge myself and buy some. I like to think about the ritual of saying a prayer with beads, fingering each stone and offering up a piece of my heart. I like the idea that each bead might represent something. I could use the beads as a gratitude list. I’d say a prayer of thanksgiving touching each bead as I think about all of the amazing things that I have been given in sobriety. My husband, my daughter, my home, my job, my family and friends. All of these things seemed lost to me years ago. I could use the beads to consider my journey, touching each bead and asking my Higher Power for knowledge of His will for me in each area of my life. Each bead could represent a family member or friend, or someone still suffering as I pray for God’s blessings on them.

Prayer has never come easy to me. My spiritual journey has been an intense evolution of discarding some childhood notions and establishing a new relationship with a God of my understanding. I see constant evidence of God in my life, but I want to feel connected. When I am alone, the conscious contact with God can feel elusive. More often than not while praying at night I fall asleep. (I trust the Lord knows I’m tired.) My husband and I have just recently started praying together. They are short, sweet prayers of gratitude. It is incredibly intimate to pray with someone you love. Awkward but intimate. When I pray in groups, it just feels like words. I sneak my eyes open and find other people feeling the same way.

There are times though when my prayer connection is absolute and overwhelming. These times are when I pray without words. I simply close my eyes, quiet my mind and offer up my feelings. I picture all of my joy, pain, confusion, hope, defeat, everything beaming straight up to God without one word spoken. I’ve decided that God does not have ears. I can talk to him heart to heart. But I do think I am going to get some beads.

Give It Away Or Choke On It

I met a friend for coffee Saturday morning. A man was sitting outside of Coffee Bean reading by the entrance. I glanced at him and smiled. “Good book?” I asked. “Oh yeah” he answered and then launched into what can only be described as a ten minute rant about what he was reading and what is wrong with America today. Apparently (according to him) the poor and the middle classes are sucking the life out of this great country and the new administration is poised to give “it” (whatever “it” is) all away. I’m not good at confrontation, and I was not raised to be rude, but this was getting increasingly uncomfortable. I excused myself with something less than grace, made a mental note to say a prayer for his black heart and went on inside.

The next day at church was Compassion Sunday. That is the day when we feed the homeless and distribute groceries to anyone who needs help. They made an announcement that demand was unexpectedly up 60% and our supply was dangerously low. So an appeal went out to bring food for the bank next week. Is this what he meant? Is this the sucking?

As my husband and I left church we looked at the line of people waiting for meals and groceries. I saw myself in it. Before I got sober I used to take my little girl by the hand and we would go to a place called S.O.S. (Share Our Selves) They would give us peanut butter, bread, lettuce, and diapers…whatever. It helped. It helped a lot. Yes my own bad choices were the reason I was in that line. Yes I was an addict and my money was going to drugs. But I have to wonder if I had not been given that food, would I have the compassion today to turn around and give others food? If people had not helped and believed in me, would I know how to help and believe in others? Everything in this life is a circle and it starts with the compassion of my Higher Power’s Grace. He was working in my life long before I even got sober.

Who is to say that reaching out and helping someone now is a waste of effort or America’s money. In sobriety I have learned that in order to keep something I have to give it away. I would rather live with compassion as my guide than a black heart that is so wounded it needs to rant at strangers outside of a coffee shop on a beautiful day.