Come hang with me this month:
đđ˝ Register for Sober from Bullshit Recovery Club here. Next one is February 15.
đđ˝Â February writing workshop is live, and the theme is Abundance vs. Scarcity.
Register here (Sunday, 2/28) âď¸ 1 spot left âď¸
In recovery, I am on uncharted territory. At first I liken my traipsing across the vast emptiness to that of a cowboyâs, because I donât know another word to explain how it feels, what itâs like, who I am, meandering into wildness with nothing but myself and a stubborn terrier instead of a horse as company. Cowboy, however, falls short, and the word makes me recoil, for I no longer seek to manipulate or control: I resist all taming; I long to flow instead of fight; whatâs more, I look terrible in wide-brimmed hats.
Artist rings true, and this is where I stake my claim. Instead of scraping, plowing, riding, digging, I take up a brush. I begin to sculpt this new terrain. I trace fresh words in her damp mud. I sit and observe patiently until the full range of her beauty is offered up to me, usually during those mystic 10-15 minutes at dawn and dusk. I spend so much time alone, watching, listening, resting. At first the grandeur of this wide open canvas overwhelms me, and my brushstrokes are choppy and frenetic, the colors clash, itâs messy and exhausting. But soon, some semblance of technique emerges, coheres into shapes and images and for the first time I am able to trust my own skill and knowing.
I paint a woman. Blurred edges. Face in soft focus. Periphery melting into ether, stare long enough and sheâll melt into fog. I keep painting. I learn from those who have walked before me. I keep listening, I practice. I use a fine-tipped brush dipped in sharp black, I get bolder with my color palette, I draw my woman naked and strong and unapologetic. I look her in the eye and she holds my gaze, I draw her big, and bigger, and soon she is uncontainable. The canvas no longer holds.
*
In Sobriety Scrabble⢠, âboundariesâ is a triple word score.
Initially, I fixate on all that I have to keep out. Iâve plugged up the leaks in my periphery, and for the first time in memory, I have clearly defined edges, and an uninterrupted perimeter. I am whole.
I am protective.
Without question, there are the big, obvious calls for boundaries. I ditch the bummer friends, bummer boyfriend. I stand up for myself inside of certain family dynamics, boss-employee dynamics. I stop putting the needs of everyone else ahead of my own. I say no. I decline invitations. I leave every event early.
Soon, I learn that there is more to boundaries than keeping things out. I also learn I must keep things in. And hereâs where the dance goes from overt to subtle.
I learn that not everyone is worthy of my story (I stop oversharing on first dates).
I learn that I do my best work in the early part of the day (I stop working by 5 or 6).
I learn that the queasy feeling in my gut is a signal that a line is being crossed (my intuition returns, holding a lantern in my belly).
I learn that I donât have to justify said lines (I stop explaining myself).
I spent decades trying to âtake the edge off.â And this is the mindfuck. Freedomâwhat I thought I was chasing through all those years of willfully throwing myself off every available cliffâwasnât available until I became whole. I had I thought line-less-ness equalled freedom. But really all it ever did was float me away.
*
Time rolls along. The boundaries dance is second nature. Now, the focus is mastery, technique, refinement. Play. Joy.
I look up âboundariesâ in the dictionary. A synonym is âfrontier,â which captures my curiosity:
frontier
noun
the part of a country that borders another country; boundary; border.
the land or territory that forms the furthest extent of a country's settled or inhabited regions.
Often frontiers.
a. the limit of knowledge or the most advanced achievement in a particular field
b. an outer limit in a field of endeavor, especially one in which the opportunities for research and development have not been exploited (emphasis mine)
If the aim is play and joy, my boundaries are a coastline. There is no rigidity, no sharpness. The quality is organic; the texture, machine washable. These lines trace a topography of history, gut feeling and experience. They demand a skepticism toward dogma and rules, one-size-fits-all. A negotiation between strength and softness, the lines become my values in action.
An outer limit in a field of endeavor. Out here, I laugh as I make adjustments to my routines and to-do lists. Out here, I forgive myself for all the nights I spent shrugging off my edges as if they were as expendable as a paper hat. I adapt, reconsider, question. I push back, I open up. I change my mind, I evolve my thinking. Out here, I am experiencing life. I am inside of life: indeed, we are in relationship. Out here, my eyes are open, my attention is exquisite, and you can throw in all the fancy words you want, but the one youâll never hear is deprivation.
Slow Motion Sober is a newsletter and community for creative types who are sober or curious about sobriety, and all the life-y intersections along the way. It's written by me, Dani, a writer, facilitator and sobriety advocate in San Francisco, CA.Â
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