An Inquiry into... Something or: "Kaya wipinsiw"

(Kaya wipimsiw:  Cree "Don't throw yourself away.")

I haven't written for a while.  I keep meaning to and in fact, have acquired the perfect surroundings and circumstances from which to write. 

There is something that keeps niggling at me...  Gnawing at my heart.  Something that I know that I keep thinking I need to share.  I haven't been sure about the context or the appropriate situation to share it, but my thoughts keep coming back to this blog; this assemblage of lonely electrons, waiting for more poetic prodding and reorganizing to capture my thoughts, feelings and to share them with my world.

The Darkness

Some time ago, I was a practicing addict - actually more pro than practicing, but an addict nonetheless.  I was working for a Child and Family Services Agency, often sitting in case conferences with medical practitioners, youth workers, psychologists, child welfare workers, and other personnel, planning on how to reduce the risk of our charges getting introduced to street drugs.

Then, after offering my carefully moderated input (with a clear eye to keeping the facade intact), I would scurry away from the office and indulge in my own particular dysfunctional relationship with the very same substances.

Then my mom died.

I used while she was dying and I used after she died.  Then I realized I might die.  I felt so much like the gentle poplar fluff floating on the breeze, tossing to and fro, never knowing what end it might reach.

So I walked into my boss's office, sat down and said, "Bev, I need to go to treatment.  I need to heal and to grieve."

She said, "You can do that here.  We are your family.  You should have support."

I replied, "But I'm a sad joke.  I am using, sometimes even after high risk mitigation case conferences."

"Who better to have in those meetings than you, silly?"

I didn't know what to say to this.  She went on:

"You are doing important research.  We need you.  This is who we are.  We are broken, we are using, we are dying.  Learn what you can, research what you need to, then share with the community.  In leading your own way out of darkness, you can lead others."

I thought on this.  I thought mostly that she was nuts.  I agreed with her in some way, but I knew I was lost.  So I went to a place that used to be sacred to me but had been ripped asunder by bureaucrats and powermongers.  It was good. I healed some, wrote some, cried some, exercised some and made mental notes about how sad it was that wonderful barrels of apples could be spoiled by one or two rotten ones.

But in the end, I found my centre, reclaimed some power and sallied forth into the cold, hard world.

My boss didn't like the new me.  I was gentler, less abrasive.  My slightly hurtful zingers and sarcastic sense of humour had been replaced with this antiseptic, slightly phony spiritual groundedness - working with all in my power to keep my thoughts away from my lizard brain

^

amygdala - not to

be confused with

                                                                                 \/

and trying to project love, compassion, sensitivity, etc. into all that I did.  The old "fake it till you make it" school of thought.  When I told this to my supervisor, she said flatly, "well, I don't like it.  It's not you."

So much for faking it till I made it. I cashed in my chips as a $38K per year group home supervisor to run Komatsu 793 at Suncor for $1800 a week.  Ironically, cleaning up and staying sober rather well in Fort McMoney.

Fort Mac wasn't the problem.  It was the coming home that killed me.  The closer I would get to Edmonton, the harder my hands would grip the steering wheel, the old "white knuckle shuffle" I guess.  Sometimes I would call a sponsor.  More often than not, I would call my dealer by about Redwater.

Anyways, "The Darkness" this section is called, and indeed, darkness shall ye receive.

I write this today because I want to share some of my findings throughout the lo, 15-odd years of inner-city research I have conducted and how it might pertain to the missing, to the murdered and to the not-yet-missing-or-murdered-but-for-fuck-sakes-smarten-up-or-you-will-be-missing-or-murdered category.

This is The Darkness of which I speak.

It is the street.  The endlessly desperate and pleading street.  The same street that exists in every single town or city I've encountered across this nation - from Skidegate to Sheshatshiu, The one that claws at the weak or lonely or even bored and pulls them to her unrelenting bosom.  It is in that embrace that one can know The Darkness.

This street is sometimes a main highway, knifing through town with asphalt that is cobalt black at 4:00 in the morning, sometimes with snow skittering across the lanes and ditch grass, brown and crisp, chattering and whispering "come, lay here with meeeeeee.... yesssssssssssss."

Sometimes it is a residential block, with a shady overhang of foliage that hides the users and abusers from sight, drowning out the shouts and obscenities with the endless hum of urban enterprise.

But always, it is Darkness.

And within that darkness, always, you will find them.  The women, the girls.  Usually alone, Seemingly unafraid.  Maybe they are unafraid.  Maybe they have danced with fear enough to know what real fear feels like, with its whiskey breath and dirty jeans from oil and diesel fumes and axle grease smell.

I can't know. I will never know until I am told. Until they tell their stories, one by one, and we are made to listen - through every gut-wrenching abuse and soul rending travesty - until we finally understand and find our way to do every goddamn thing we can to protect, prevent, educate, elucidate and illuminate the darkness that draws them in.

The Reaction

There is a code that becomes unraveled sometimes when you've spent enough time out there.  Or even by dipping a toe in enough times.  A code that is long and complex, sometimes cold and brusque, sometimes warm and loving beyond any love you've ever known.  But is one that speaks for itself.  It never needs explaining once you know it.  Until you do, you hear things like, "they mistake your kindness for weakness", or "she had it coming," or "well what can I do?  That's just the way it is."

My heart breaks every time I see them out there, walking, sometimes trying to look like they're going somewhere, sometimes even they are.  I don't know that place where a woman has to go to sell the comfort offered by her body.  I do know, however, that when I was in my darkest places, I would not have hesitated one SECOND to turn a trick for even a single hit, so I understand in a way.

When one has broken the code, it is then that the compassion and empathy can be unlocked.  I don't see the behaviours, most times: I see the pain and the layers of leathery protection that have been placed so precariously to cover the thin spots, the weak spots, the sensitivities that might betray the little girl that had her innocence taken, or that young wife that was beaten and berated enough to believe her abuser, or even the inter-generational modelling of multiple abuses and shit-eating that sometimes grammas teach mommies teach babygirls.

I have literally been in a crackhouse with three generations of streetwomen:  A grandmother, a mother and two daughters.  All teenage mothers at one time.  The grandmother proudly describing the first time she put the mother out to turn a trick.

This was the same night that the caretaker of the group (the oldest daughter, naturally) was trying to decorate a tiny, crooked Christmas tree with shaking, thin, bruised arms and 3-and-a-half inch heels and miniskirt, while the house was exploding with violence.

She said, with giant tears rolling down her face, "It's supposed to be Christmas.  And look, I'm crying.  I can't even remember the last time I cried."  She wasn't even sobbing, or crying - just emotionless while teaspoon after teaspoon of saltwater rolled down her face, leaving their trails on her dark, gaunt cheek.

Shakespeare talked in Henry V about the dark things that can happen when one is "in his ales and cups", so too when one is in his pipes and baggies.

But the lecherous manipulator that I've seen in others manifests differently in me when I used to use.  I did not yearn for this woman.  I instead longed to hold her - to comfort her; to take her away from this madness and let her cry and cry and eat and sleep and find her way back to that place where her darkness started - to reclaim that which was rightly hers.  I hope that the Christmas tree was the start of her journey back.  

I would hide out in these places, get what I sought, and want to be alone.  Quiet.  Away from the madness and violence and posturing and bullshit.  Just in the dark, me and my silent hell.

But always people would find me, seek me out. Tell me their stories.

"This isn't the life I wanted," they'd say, "I wanted to own my own truck and hotshot company like my uncle."  Or "I started school two years ago, but this shit kept taking me back out.  I don't think there's any hope anymore, so I might as well just use till I do the chicken."

And I would nod, and say, "There's still hope.  You can always go back," or some such offering, but all I wanted to do was get high, and run from my own compassion.

Like clockwork they would come.  Telling me their trials and hopes and dreams.  And me, sadly detached from my compassionate powerhouse core - wanly trying to lend them an ear and some dime store advice.

The Reaction I am referring to in this section is the one that I sometimes see, sometimes even from people who are supposed to be working with our weak and high risk people; sometimes even from those high profile advocacy groups who access hundreds of thousands of dollars in the name of the missing or the murdered.

The one that will live with me forever is the time I was working for a fairly well known women's advocacy group.  I had been doing some communications work - graphic design, writing, etc.  One day I answered the phone and got into a wonderful conversation with a Mohawk woman who was seized by Child Welfare, adopted out stateside, then, not finding true acceptance (mostly of the "self" variety) in her adopted home, found solace in "her cups" and baggies, etc...  Ended up coming back to Canada, and on the street.  Worked sex trade to support her habits and got infected with HIV.  

Through this tumultuous journey, she discovered the amazing culture of the bloodline into which she was born.  She then began connecting with teachers, elders, spiritual advisors - anyone who could help her unlock who she was.  It was as though the universe was placing people and opportunities in her path, exactly when and where she was supposed to be, meeting exactly the people she needed to meet right when she needed to meet them.

It all culminated with tearful acceptance from her blood relatives and a homecoming of intensely beautiful spiritual depth.

She now wanted to find out anything she could about initiatives that supported, advised, guided Aboriginal women.

I was beside myself with excitement on her behalf.  What a wondrous tale of hope and heart and just plain everything that is good with the world.

"Of COURSE we'll work with you.  I will connect you with the women that work here, I'm sure they would love to hear your story and work with you in any way."

That afternoon was a scheduled board meeting.  Initiative updates and planning and board directives and the like.

Toward the end I remembered the jewel of a conversation I'd had that morning.

"Oh, I just remembered," says I, "I had the most amazing discussion with a young lady from..."

And I shared the tale with pride, knowing that this connection would be celebrated and supported and help to build our grassroots connections even stronger.

"...and now she wants to just be a part of whatever it is you guys are doing here, and spread the word and be an emissary on the ground out there, so yeah:  It's been a good morning!" I said, almost breathless from my excitement and glibly awaiting the kudos and praise for bringing our message to the people.

Silence.

Then looks at one another.  Then a sort of awkward shuffling toward the buffet lunch table by some of the participants; I was being coolly dismissed by them without comment.  

"Sheldon, how can we be sure that is the kind of person we want associated with our organization?  You need to be more careful when taking calls."

"WHAT THE FUCK!??" I screamed in my mind.  "HOW THE FUCK can you write proposals for hundreds of thousands, nay, millions of dollars with the words "Missing and Murdered" in their titles and NOT WANT TO DROP EVERYTHING and help this damn woman be an emissary of light for the power of culture, of healing and of all things good?"

Here was a woman who had been ripped from the bosom of her homeland, systematically stripped of her cultural identity, exposed to all the evils of sin and excess, lost her identity, her hopes and her dreams, infected with the virus that causes AIDS, and then...

...only then did she dig deep, marshalling the resources to meet Creator halfway, and meet her He did, instilling hope where before there was only darkness and opportunities where there were only dead ends.

A goddamn inspiration says I.

But not someone they wanted to associate with.

Well, I never.  

I will say this:  This organization was the first, at least in my mind, to start the rallying cry which now even has its own hashtag #MMIW and may well get an inquiry after all.  Maybe their job was to broach the subject at the government and policy makers' tables, and not.. um.. get their hands dirty.

This Reaction is not limited to organizations.  We do it everyday in our urban world and even in our communities.  We drive by them on the highway, or walk by them on the street, sometimes meeting their eyes - maybe to chide, deride; sometimes maybe to offer a polite smile of kindness and a sad sort of pity.  We even sometimes pass right by without even a thought to their story - their pains and trials and broken hearts.

We leave them there to the johns - to the predators and to the police to deal with.

This is the black mark we need to wear on our collective conscience.

The Choice

What do we then do to change the numbers, to reverse our trends?  Our aboriginal population is growing at a tremendous rate, placing enormous strain on our institutions and resources.  So many of our people are young, in their teens or childhood, and with the economic pressures placed on our communities, so many are drawn to the cities and towns with their families - far too often consisting of a single mom (I was going to write "only a single mom" but there is no such thing as "only a single mom"...  They are powerful and demanding of our respect as no other in our society) and more than one child.

Our migrating populations tend to occupy jobs at the lower end of the economic scale and educational attainment.  These socioeconomic realities can far too often become a funnel directly into high risk, street lifestyles.  

This is the critical moment that our society needs to flex its brawny and comforting arms and wrap our at-risk youth in opportunity, support, guidance, mentorship and real, practicable options.

It is with pride that I creep some of my Facebook friends' pages.  I know their stories.  One of my friends was led to the street by her family, to help bring home the bacon so they could all put it on a pipe.  Now she is more than gainfully employed, well on her way to becoming a journeyman (journeyperson?) in a trade.

She will be a statistic, but one that we need to celebrate and applaud and reward with all that we can.  Pulled from the maw of a grim and painful end by her own revulsion of the life she was leading and by some policies that actually work.

The Choice:  Community

We are our brothers' keeper, but most importantly, we are our sisters' keeper.  It is our job, not as aboriginal people, but as human beings, to care for our most vulnerable.  As aboriginal people, our responsibility should become more clear.  We need to intervene; to talk, to ask, to say, "no, I will not let you throw your life away."

Kaya wipinsiw.

An inquiry could be a good thing.  But for me, I know why we have missing and murdered aboriginal women, and I think, if we all looked at our own choices, at our own actions, our own experiences, we could all offer our own answers to this complex question.

An inquiry will likely pick the scabs of social policy inadequacies, of shortsighted community planning, funding shortfalls in vital areas or paint clearly the picture of the lack of horizontal planning that helps heal, empower and equip our women to walk proudly, safely and with honour.

What it may not answer is "why?"

Why do so many of our girls, many of whom have fairly comfortable homes in their communities, choose the brash, unprotected existence in the towns and cities that surround them?

There are two sisters I know here in this small northern boreal Alberta town where I live.  I know the eldest one from a treatment centre I attended some time ago (again, all part of my research) and reconnected with her in the most excruciating way.

A couple weeks ago, I was out having a smoke behind the restaurant where I work a few evenings a week.  I see some movement out of the corner of my eye and a figure sort of shuffles around the edge of the building, eyes to the ground. I recognize her instantly.  She is tall and attractive, with the high, proud cheekbones of her Dene people.

She looks up, surprised to see someone out back by the garbage cans.  There is an initial look of surprise, and then she recognizes me too.

Her breath catches in her throat.  Her eyes widen.  And then, in an instant, she is crying, running away, back around the corner, ashamed.

I remember her from when she came into the rehabilitation centre.  She was loud and brash and tough talking, misusing swear words and vernacular in an almost child like way.  Over the weeks there, she softened, quieted.  She talked about losing her mother.  She spoke frankly and with little flourish, but always with significance and deep meaning. 

Then, as can be the case with peeling onions and healing, it all became too much.  She found something to focus some negativity on, played the victim, then packed her bags and self terminated.

"How?" you may ask.

How else:  She packed her duffel bag, threw on her sneakers and hoodie, and started hiking it to the highway - all 7 miles of February wintry road 'tween the two. (Staff eventually went to pick her up, thinking she would return, but she wanted out and back to her "life")

But in that time in that healing place, I remembered listening to her.  About her fears and her children (now in care) and her mother (dead from drinking) and her role as oldest of her sibs (I can relate).  I saw her vulnerability.  I saw her inability to reconcile the brutish experiences she had as a child with those she learned she was supposed to have had.  I remembered thinking that she needed some help assembling a meaningful life from the cards she had been dealt; some intervention, mentoring and support from someone kindred who had done the same.

12-step is a good way, but you gotta have 12-steppers and willing participants to make that dance work.  "What are you willing to do today to stay sober?" my most beloved sponsor would say.

She had her mom's house, which she said was homey and inviting, but still so sad.  If she had an invitation to hope and to light in her home community, maybe she would stay there, find something to hold onto and come out of The Darkness.

This, to me is the key.

This girl, and now her little sister, spend most of their days haunting the streets of our town, looking for a few bucks for an

She tells me she doesn't hook but that her sister, who "is more of a hippie than me" does, but only once in a while.

It'll be cold soon.  Real cold.  This is just "South of 60°" so we don't mess around.  This tends to decrease the numbers of denizens on the street.  What we do, as a community, for our broken and slowly breaking, will speak volumes on our place in history.

The oldest profession in the world.

Right.

Ever since man created money, he's found a way to exploit it, get what he wants.

And I have played my part in this terrible tragedy just by being a past participant in street drug culture.  I have played my part by walking past, without a thought. I have contributed to missing and murdered women by not working with everything within my power to create safe havens, hopeful paths and healthy options for those who live on the fringes and front lines.

But each day, as the grim and sad story continues to play out, we must find it within ourselves to ensure our girls and our women are able to find their place in the light and not the dirty, broken Darkness.

It is because when they are at those difficult crossroads, when choices seem limited and few,  that they must be equipped with the means and the options to chart courses to lives that are full of hope and beauty.

Our most sacred, blessed creation is woman.  We must help her to believe this too.

Coming Home to my Community...

Wow.  Good morning.  The universe responds sometimes with such power and clarity that I giggle sometimes at the clear face of its love.

Part I: The Hawk

Today I sit at the doorstep of the rest of my life.  The room I am just leaving is my life until now.  This room has not been all bad, nor has it been all good.  There have been many wonderful gifts that I've been given, many I've indeed given as well, but much that I've taken.  Taken without asking, taken despite being told "no," and taken gently, but taken nonetheless.

I have grown weary of being a taker.

I have chosen to end a relationship of 15 years this past month.  A relationship that has taken much from me, and in turn has caused me to take as much as I could from the people around me, the ones that love me.  This relationship did not feed my spirit nor connect me with the universe around me.  It isolated, caused fear and pain, guilt and shame and wreaked havoc on my relationship with myself, Creator and my family and community.

Community.

I just returned from a trip to the mountains. Two days of love, light and hope.  Even a little ceremony mixed in for good measure.  My spirit was fed, cleansed, embraced and supported.  Now I am home.

Before I left, I wrote on these electronic pages that I would be meeting someone there.  A hawk.  A hawk from the city who had been striving to keep his hawkness for many years. A hawk who has injured some, maybe through thought, action and deed, but never me.  A hawk who has also done very well and helped many people.

I have chosen for many years to not fly in the same circles as this particular hawk. But now, now that I am cleaning my soul, choosing to give instead of take, and walk with pride and authenticity, I have gravitated to some of those circles.

Last week I wrote that the hawk from the city needs, every once in a while, to return to his home, to the verdant fields and grasses waving in the breeze, to the land of the bouncing vole and the timid mouse.  To reconnect, recharge and connect with his centre.  I bore witness to these actions from my hawk friend.

Hawks tend to fly more often than not, so his steps along the mountain, and through the rushing stream were careful and slow.  Fear lined his face as he made his way through the trail.  But he did it...  We did it. We did it together, emerging from the bush stronger for our experience.

As we walked, I had asked him about the things I'd heard that disparaged him, not in a pointed way, but in a gentle way, inviting explanation.  I received this explanation and acquired understanding from his perspective.  Along the way, a beautiful, gentle teacher who happened to be along for the journey, opened her heart and shared wisdom that was hers and straight from the land and from our ancestors.  It was law, as designated and laid down by our Creator.

I saw my friend continue walking and telling his story - one of intrigue and mistrust and misplaced human values, while this gentle teacher behind us, with her truths that emanated from her heart and from the hearts of our shared ancestries, was silenced by my hawk friend and the political bullshit that we were talking about.  I really just wanted to stop and turn, and in fact I did, to learn more of this beautiful teaching that, despite being Indian all my life, I had never heard before.

Maybe he'd heard those teachings before, maybe he is well versed in natural law.  But all I know is that in that setting, in that verdant mountain beauty, to talk of another's errant choices and mistakes and to cast aspersions on the very process that one has spent so much time creating, and to cast blame on others while shining the light of innocence on one's self is a lot like giving Creator the finger - especially while a gentle truth from our ancestry is being shared by a young lady whose gentle truths helped inspire a global movement.

Part II:  Community

Community the word came to us from the French  communité which came to them from the Latin communitas (com = with + munas = gift).  To share gifts.  To share our gifts.  This is what it's all about.

My trip to the mountains saw the coming together of people from many places and walks of life, backgrounds and colours.  Although there was a high number of brothers and sisters from the white race, each of the four races of mankind was represented, due in part to the three colours that dance harmoniously in my blood!) and a single representative from Japan.  Even still, the community that gathered there was not based on race:  It was and is based on love.  On generosity of spirit and deed and on a common vision of a healthier planet and societies based on love, tolerance and understanding.  And on those issues, our racial lines and separation of colour blur into a common shade of spirit.  

"First we are spirit..." said my late mom once at a gathering that was threatening to erupt into flames of hatred and jealousy and anger.

"...then we are man or woman, then we are our race, then we are our communities and families... but first, we are spirit."

The words and ideas and hopes and dreams of a better tomorrow danced around the flames of our sacred fire and among the tendrils of smoke from our smudge and as we shared our hearts and the gifts of our minds and broke bread together, we became spirit.

I met many incredible people.

I met a woman who danced with a wolf in order to protect her beloved pet and in that dance, shared maternal protective instinct that the mother wolf likely recognized and respected.

I met another woman who brings her heart day in and day out helping people in a world that is often thankless and cold - who sat next to me on the way to the mountain while I cried for a child who had to grow up too quickly.

I met a man who made much money helping others make money and save money and invest money and hide money and who now devotes his time to helping people on their journeys and engaging in spiritual improvement..

I met many healers; I met people with the gift of song, with the gift of beauty, with the gift of perseverance... With many gifts. 

I met a woman who has become the change she wants to see in the world - by gently severing her ties that bind her to the worship of legal tender and instead, invests her energies into those things based on spiritual capital or real capital - like food, shelter, love, hope, and so forth.

I met a man who, despite being playful like a child, has seen the enemy and his ways, knows them inside and out, and who can see the light that shines on the other side of a crumbled Wall Street.

What joy there is in being part of a community that gives. That feels.  That sings together. That prays together.  That loves together. 

I heard so many stories in such a short time.  I was sad to leave. 

Part III: Connection and Re-connection

These two days since have rattled me to the core.  I tried yesterday to contact some of the participants for continuation of our discussions.  No emails back yet, no returned calls.  Despite the feeling that my life hinges in the balance of these discussions, I am having to surrender this fear and this frustration.  It is hard.  We are all busy.  

We talked in the circle of how do we sustain this; how do we keep from feeling isolated and alone after we leave here; how do we continue this work in our homes and communities with the strength of the circle?

And now we all sit in our homes and communities, maybe some wondering as me, maybe some grieving as me.

I called a family member yesterday; one who has worked closely with hawks.  I retold the story I'd heard in the mountains. The one of best intentions gone awry.  The one that showed no culpability or responsibility for the permutations and political realignments that have plagued our community.  The one that cast blame on situations and individuals and inescapable truths.

My relative said, "Bullshit."

"He lied to your face."

This hurts.  But what can I do?  

Have a little faith.

I want to work in our community - to help others.  To achieve a level of comfort for my family and to help others accomplish the same for theirs.  There are institutions that have been built with the hope and the vision and the theoretical tools to do these things.

They sit right now, unused and in need of repair - of realignment, of restaffing.  Maybe when the time comes, I will be needed there.  Maybe they will resist a bear like me in the arena of hawks and wolves and foxes and frogs. Maybe they'll welcome me with open arms.  Like most human endeavour, I'm sure it'll be a little of both if the time does indeed come.  

I brought home one task for our circle which will lead to closer connection.  Today I will complete this task and I'm certain I will feel the embrace of the circle again.

Part IV:  Conclusion - Coming Home

Sometimes in our families and our communities, we yearn for acceptance and love.  Or maybe we think it's love, when really it's just approval.  Anyways, we jump and dance, and smile and sing and do everything we can to get that pat on the head, that validation and the feelings of safety and security that come from that.

We spend all our time looking in one place, and in doing so, we miss the love that the universe shares with us from all the other places and sources in our lives.  We become so focused on the one that we miss the many.  We can't feel the beauty and inspiration of the forest for the one or two trees that block our view.

I sat and prayed in the tub this morning.  Revelation is gift I usually receive when I do this.  (I'm a Pisces which is a beautiful set of character traits that derive their power from water)

Pisces:  We are mutable but framed in love, inspiration, heart and creativity and love of food.  Well, that last one, maybe not so much...

Anyways, the revelation that greeted me is that community is many things.  Part of my struggle is that I am working to change my stars as they say, and create a life that is based on sustainability, heart work, love and protecting and celebrating culture, diversity and the earth.

There are not too many jobs out there with these things as a combined description.  So I must do it myself, but within the context of my community.

I have on my Facebook a job description that says "CEO, Living Earth Inc."...  This is a vestige of an idea from some months ago that started out great, but after consulting a non-Aboriginal, driven and ambitious business consultant, thought better of doing something, as he said, "...with a lot of risk and not much reward."

I concurred, not realizing that our concept of reward was very different.

Yesterday I get a message from a media representative wanting to interview me for "my role as CEO of Living Earth Inc."...

Oops.

Holy Shit!  I have to get to work now...  

I will start here at home.  I don't have to dance with the hawks and the menagerie in the city to the west of me right now.  That will happen soon enough.  And I will dance with sure steps, strong and with the rhythm of the earth.  But for now, I will start here.  

I live in Sherwood Park, which I say with a little pride whenever people ask where I live.  What I don't always say is that I live in a co-op in Sherwood Park, renting, not with a $500K mortgage (which is from the Latin "mortus" for death, and "gage" from Old Germanic for "pledge."  mortgage = Death pledge)  I really don't think I want one of those.

If Sherwood Park is sometimes perceived as the elite, as the Joneses that we strive to keep up with, surely our Davidson Creek Co-Op might be perceived as being on the other side of the tracks.

But the Co-op sometimes doesn't feel like one.  Petty differences, grievances, many of them our own; suspicion, fear, uncertainties...  These are things that I feel sometimes when I regard my own home here in the park.  Now I have some acquaintances, and all the kids love me, but really.  I mean, my neighbour and I shared a beer for the first time last week in 6.5 years of living here.  Six and a half years!  Funny.

That's actually a story for another day.

But I want to work at building community here.  Sharing our gifts in the truest sense.

Start here. Not running to some poor First Nation and trying some out of the box social science experiment - right here at home.  I told my wife I wanted to go to the next community meeting and she said "why?", with more than a little trepidation in her eyes.  She knows I like to volunteer and take things on, and seek approval and... and, and...  so on and so on.   She knows that historically I have done this, in many circles, begin to move too fast, and then implode in a fit of bad decisions, procrastination, self effacing thoughts and ultimately to addictive behaviours.

Not this time my love. Not this time.

In my bath today, I was thinking about this guy who I admire.  He's kind of a hawk too I think.  But he started by rolling up his sleeves and stepping into one of the toughest neighbourhoods in the world and began building community.  His work was heart inspired and tireless.  And he brought it.  Day after day, he brought it.

He put on his rubber boots and walked through shit and backlash, through suspicion and racist ideals, and still he brought it.

He wasn't perfect, and still isn't, but he's in the world's most powerful chair, making decisions that shape our very lives, and it all started by building community.

So I will put on my moccasins (or rubber boots) and walk as tenderly and authentically as I can, and ask for help along the way.  I will try not to cast aspersions on another or commit violence against another, and I will not always be successful (even today I took out my anxiety and frustration from my current financial state on someone I love dearly, even before the sun had really risen - Sorry S.).  I will atone when I must and work my hardest to be kinder and more open to suggestions and criticism in the future.

Progress, not perfection.

We are all children of God, and, as such, are all sacred.  We must embrace that sacredness and celebrate our similarities and work to find common ground among our differences.

Ekosi,

With love,
S.

Epilogue:  The Hawk

The hawk is my teacher.  This reprise (from the French "reprendre" = to take back) or theme is a significant one.  The hawk is a messenger.  He tells us when there is healing happening.  Where he circles and flies, there is healing afoot.  I love the hawk as I love all my brothers and sisters.  

Our ways are different but the same.  They complement each other.  The bear with the hawkish ways or the hawk with bear-like traits.  And all the clans in between.  We dance together. We are all one in the same:  Spirit first, then hearts, which are stronger when broken, then bodies that must be fed, clothed and housed.  

No one's work is perfect, but we are stronger together and our chance at perfection lies in the possibility of accepting our neighbour as equally and unequivocally as we accept ourselves and respecting their right to express themselves and feel an integral part of an open, honest and healing community.

xox.

S.

Treating myself thusly

Henry David Thoreau, who left the world we tend to think is the "real world", for a couple of years to live at Walden Pond, kinda figured it out.  He rose even before sunrise, tended his wild gardens, observed his neighbours - the mice and the gannets and the deer and the white cherry and so on and so on - and drew correct conclusions about exactly what was the "real world" after all.

He wrote: "The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruit, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling.  Yet we do not treat ourselves, nor one another, thus tenderly."

True that my homies would say.

Today is about the 20th day or so that I have been clean from crack cocaine.  It feels like my twisted, painful dance with that shit has reached its final turn.

My body feels great.  My lungs clear and full with no cigarette shmegma crawling up my bronchi.  My muscles ache from being used occasionally - the good ache, that is - and my digestive system is responding well to this transition to more vegetables, whole grains and less meat.

Life is good.

I feel this amazing bloom occurring within my frame of reference, from behind my eyes and as the silent witness to my own actions.  I am touched to no end by this flower of truth and beauty that is become a part of my life.

To ensure it does not wither or go to seed is my task now.

Last weekend my wife and I were fighting a bit.  Nothing too serious.  Just echoes of guilt and resentment from my behaviours of so many years and mistrust at my continued efforts.  I left.  Saturday morning, I packed up my fishing rod and knife and leftover pizza, even some leftover bait minnows I had in the freezer, and I left.

I went to the land that has been the source of so much anxiety these last few weeks.  Land that my late mom walked and rediscovered her beauty and spiritual connection to the earth.  Land that my friend and colleague wants to turn into a discovery centre, a cultural centre.  Land with with I have started planting roots and laying hopes upon.

I sat there with the osprey, the red tailed hawk, the chipmunk, the goldeye, the squirrel and the ducks... even with a four foot garter snake who crossed the river to hunt in the fallen tree beside which I sat.

Nearly eight hours I sat there, smudge pot burning strongly, echoes of my mom, who once sat at that same spot, bouncing off the walls of the river valley.

I sat there and reclaimed my centre.

I didn't run and hide, I didn't prescribe instant gratification from a little baggie...  I sat and caught nothing for nearly 8 hours.

This filled me with pride and love and I came home, much to the surprise of my family, and was the better man for my choice.

Today I am going to the mountains, to sit in a circle of progressive thinkers...  and of politicians and of new agey lovers of the world.

I am a little closer to the centre of my being, to my connection to God than I've been for a long time, and I pray today that I conduct myself with respect, love and forgiveness so as to not cloud the possibilities of this gathering with petty jealousies and the like.

There is a man who will be there who has injured and hurt people in my circle.  He has worked very hard to establish a strong following, and a solid perch in this city from where he can build an empire.  He wrote once about a red tailed hawk, how even in the city it still was a red tailed hawk.  It didn't need to be in the bush to retain its hawkness.

I agree.

But I also think, that every once in a while, one has to come down from the glass pyramid to be among the grasses and trees, chase a mouse or two and feel the wind in his wings to remember what it truly means to be a hawk.

Ekosi.
S.

My son, my son...

The opening from a poem my mom wrote for me when I was about 10.

"..what have you done," it continues.  "To make me love you so?"

"Is it your eyes or is it your toe?"

And on and on she went, extolling my virtues and poking me in my self conscious ribs at the same time.

I had an incredibly powerful conversation/argument/discussion/reaching of an understanding with my oldest this morning.  He's a helluva guy.

"The prince" my mom called him when he was very small.

I am halfway through being 42 and still working to figure out who the fuck I am.  He is 17 and working hard to establish what that means for himself too.  We are so much the same, and he wants so much to not be me, but yet so much of me does he kinda wish for himself... (sigh)  Crazymaking..

He is all the depth of feeling and consideration and understanding that one could ever want for one's child, and he is the bombast, toughness and righteousness too.  I am as proud of him now as I was the moment I saw him, all chubby and plump and thick shock of straight black indian hair, soon to become ringlet curls...

I saw my wrong today and owned it.  He saw his and owned it too.  It was pretty awesome to be there, in that conversation, with that guy; that young man.  I gained immeasurable respect for him today.

Earlier, between rounds, I phoned his mom in exasperation, frustration, wondering if there was some secret that caused him to leave his home, to come to the city, to try his hand at this reinvention.

"Did he burn any bridges?  Were there any incidents?"...  Said I, all panicky and concerned.

"Not at all," said she.  "He's just a good kid trying to find his way on his own."

"By the way his grad ceremony will be on the 20th and you guys should come.  It'll be nice."

Warmed my heart.

This calm, practical woman who, thank GOD, was the one to raise him.  Who, with the help of her stalwart man, and a nice big NDN family, prepared this boy for the life that was to come.  I was in there somewhere, flitting in and out like a Disneyland Daddy, singing and charming and cooking and camping my way into his heart somehow...

But here we were today.  Man and young man:  One trying to help and shine light on the path and the other fighting like hell to turn out that light and stumble in the dark - On his own.

And he held his own.  And hung up on me when he should have.  And called back, even sooner than I would have done when I was 17.  And we worked through it.  And I love him.  Forever.  I will like him for always.  But, as long as you're living, Daniel.  My baby you'll be!

I'm just not sure...

So I am grabbing the keys for the first time in several months.  My heart is jabbering away in my chest - worried, excited, nervous...  Just fibrillating away, making me feel out of breath.  Just because I'm asking it to feel.  I was fine a few minutes ago, until I read some of my writing and saw the beauty and compassion and wit and love.  Then I figured I better write again; loosen up a bit.  Get ready for this next stage.

And now I'm fibrillating.

Could be the Ritalin that I've decided to stop.  Funny, forty-two years of unmedicated lunacy and then the diagnosis and subsequent prescription.  I spose I haven't given it a proper chance though:  I've been using consistently.  I thought that perhaps my frequent disappearances were because my mind needed a break from the constant high level thinking I was doing (insert sardonic grin here).  Saw the parallels in ADD symptom and my behaviour and sought to bridge the gaps, synaptic that is, with legal psychoactive medications.

Bullshit.

I like crack.  I like the way it tastes and I like the first few hits.  Period.  No romantic psychobabble or esoteric interpretations.  If I was a dog, I would probably lick my balls too.  I have, since the earliest memories, overdone those things that bring me pleasure.  (interpret how you see fit)  And the natural progression of this behaviour has led me to the street and to the devil's dick. (a slang for a crack pipe)

15 years.  15 fucking years of using.  All the while, perpetuating some kind of weak illusion of being a smart, sensitive Indian man with traditional values and compassion.

How compassionate is it to pawn my son's spiderman fishing rod?

These behaviours do not define me.  I am more than this deluded thinking and acting would have one believe.  But if I keep doing it, keep perpetuating the lies and self destructive act, I am this in toto.

These words today are scattered, jabbering.... a little disconnected.  So am I.  All over the fucking map.  I have been thinking so much of what I should do, what I should have done, could have done.  Thinking all the while of what I could be doing right now that is conducive to my recovery, to my family's and my health.  Doing it a little bit and then jumping off the fucking deep end again.

This is my start.  Again.  A first stab at self awareness and liberating the convoluted thinking and feelings that cram my heart and mind like so many peanut can snakes.

I don't want to hurt the ones I love anymore.  I can see a way out of the misery, pain, fear and suffering.  It starts with honesty.  I will do my best.
Love to all,
even me.
S.

Small world after all...

It's a world of laughter, a world of tears...
It's a world of hope and a world of fears...
There's so much that we share, and it's time we're aware,
It's a small world after all...

Grade 3, during the blur that was my elementary school years.  I think it was St. Edmund's Catholic School where I spent all of four or five months.  I was dressed in my buckskin, and even a little moosehide headband with black yarn braids.  I was the Indian.  Among little Dutch girls, boys in liederhosen, and all the colours of the rainbow.  Was I the only one who felt shame?  How terrible that I was ashamed to be Indian.  How fucking terrible that a seven year old has to feel those feelings.  Where did they come from?  How does the purity and innocence of childhood become tainted by asshole things like shame and fear and the need to be liked over anything else?

Who knows...

Singing became a big part of my life.  Always, always.  My family were all musical - Kokom "Mother Maybelle" Edna, Uncle Vic and his lap steel patent and professional session time and road trips with the likes of Ferlin Husky, Anny Murray, and a bevy of country stars; Uncle Jimmy and his banjo, mando and fiddle, brylcreem pompadour and a smile that shone brighter than a National steel guitar.  Uncle George, who I remember dancing in pantyhose and skirt, front partial plate taken out, but whose fiddle playing rose above his fashion sense and penchant for drunken showmanship.

My mom taught me my first song - how fitting that it was a Hank Williams tune, Blues Stay Away from Me.  My uncle Rocky showed me some chops - a Carter family riff, a little Ghost Riders in the Sky,  and these things sent me on the way to discovering a talent for song.

Soon, Dwayne Arlidge shared a little Black Dog with me and thus a love affair with Zeppelin was forged.  Rob Wingo introduced me to Major Pentatonic scale and some 12-bar blues. 

But it was my mom's record collection that really created my love of music.  Jackson Browne - Running on Empty - a record recorded entirely on the road, some in hotel rooms, and one even on a bus (this is obviously not the bus recording, but such a groovy tune; the bus recording has the drummer playing a hi hat and a cardboard box with a footpedal as a bass drum, and you can hear the ol' Silver Eagle gear down in the background as it approaches a downhill turn).

Music transported me.  I remember lying on the floor with some big ass Dolby headphones just sitting there listening to Jesus Christ Superstar, "I don't know how to looooooooove him..."

How I longed to be soothed by Jesus like Mary Magdalene.  How he could touch her heart, this woman of the street.  How he could rattle her to her core...  I could relate.

I remember feeling so ripped off by the world.  How could we continue to kill, stockpile arms, hurt our children, drink, fight, drug and steal when clearly the truth was laid bare before us by this humble Galileean some two thousand years before.

Music used to make me cry.  Softly, gently, laying on my back, all of nine years old or ten or seven or even six:  Warm salty tears sliding down my cheeks, ears and ragged mullet, finally gently laying to rest in our myriad shag carpets.  Comforted me so deeply.  Brought reason and timing, stories with starts and finishes, middles and denouments.  Brought order to my chaos. 

Funny, we sometimes had pretty meagre fridge contents, but shit we had music.  Ozark Mountain Daredevils, Nana Mouskouri , Beach Boys , Charlie Daniels Band.

Lots of music, all kinds. All flavours.  Rock, country, blues, classical, Indian Music - AWESOME Indian music  I loved this band, this album, this song.  Idyllic lifestyle, being one with the rivers, the woods, the deer and fish and sky and sun. 

Even my dream last night.  I was diving into crystal clear waters.  Swimming with my crazy step daughter while her mom was all worried, chiding us from the bridge.  Free.  Alive.  Tears and laughter.

I awoke to a sickness in my chest and a pain in my heart, fear and loathing in my brain and hurt in my stomach.  All these beautiful things within this world, and I choose crackdens, the paranoid highway - eyes in the rearview, scoping the countryside, looking for cops, people following me.  What the fuck.

I missed my trip to the mountains this weekend.  So sad for me.  How I treat myself. Fucker.  The guy that's driving this train is really starting to piss me off.

I was just listening to that song from the last link:  XIT, Plight of the Redman, At Peace, and watching the video.  At the end it says, "For You Native Americans Looking for Peace.  Just Go Home. Where Home is.  And Peace Will Find You.  Mother Earth is Waiting. Grandfathers are Watching."

So I cry yet again, knowing full well the words are true.  How I could have dove in crystal waters.  Friday night I sat in my truck, me and my little asshole friend hiding somewhere in the hood, alone and broke, yet again.  I looked up at the moon, knowing she was shining down on my friends in the lodge out in the mountains.  In my home.  I knew the grandfathers were sad for me, that they missed me, but that the show would go on for those whose moccasins took them there.  And then, I looked above, as my thoughts were strumming around all guilty-like and self loathingly, I realized the northern lights were dancing in a circle right above me.  Despite my level best effort to hide from life and responsibility and spirituality and what is real in this universe, there they were, the Grandfathers and Grandmothers themselves, dancing like I've never seen them before.

I thought of my childhood and the pain and the poverty and the shit and the scum, but I remembered only the gold and the happy days and the joy and the laughter.  I thought how amazing my life was.  How blessed I was.  What a gift was my miserly little life and the amazing gifts I have been handed to steward and share.  How could I keep thumbing my nose to Creation and flipping the hurtin'est bird to my Creator and ancestors.
What is beautiful, is that they still love me.  So dearly.  I know it.  I want to share my vision of the world with my family, with my kids. 

For so many, this has been an amazing summer.  I read my Facebook; I creep friends' pages.  I see what fun you're all having. 

For me, this  has been the summer of shame. 

But watch out mofos:  It's going to be the Fall of the Fall of Selfishness and the Winter of my Contentment.  And heretofore, a life of Hope Springs Eternal.

I'm not ashamed to wear the buckskin anymore you know...  I love it.  I'm ashamed of something else, and I don't know where it is or what it is, but I'll find it if I have to. 

I was just offered a nice little fulltime job from someone who knows my shitty ass truths and has seen my shine.  Someone who believes in me.  I think I can follow his lead and believe in me too.

Love to you all.
S.

Day Three...

Funny...  I get a gentle little push today reminding me that I didn't blog yesterday.  See, I even start to waver in my commitments; it only takes a few short hours for the best laid plans to turn into water under the bridge.  Thanks for the reminder.

In fact, yesterday was a very difficult day.  My family travelled to the north pole in order that T. could do some valuable work.  I stayed because I have much work to do here.  So, alone I was.  Sad and alone.  Realizing how much life my children and wife inspire in me.  My energy level just drained. My intentions were good, as they usually are - i.e. I wanted to hit a nice Sunday evening meeting, wanted to blog until the cows came home and enjoy the quiet and the time to myself.  But instead, I sat on the couch, watching movies and eating spicy food, feeling bad for not following through on at least the meeting that I had intended.

 Today I am reminded that addiction is a disease of loneliness.  That it can be fed by loneliness and solitude.   That it tends to be the inability to want to be in one's own skin that can drive the first attempt to "pick up."

Please carry me from this place.

Lots of work to do; cleaning up wreckage, creating new pathways and new opportunities.  Honouring old commitments.  Learning how to love one's self.

Today I would much rather stay in bed all day and hide from the sun, from the shame, from the responsibility and from the fear.  But I can't.  A gentle little push from Thunder Bay is all it takes this morning.

My wife says to me a couple years ago that I will be remembered for the addict behaviour and bullshit, not for anything else.  She means it well, as a means of inspiration...  As in "get off your ass and smarten up, or this will be all anyone sees when they look at you..."  Inside, I thought, "She's crazy.  There is so much I've done.  So many people I've touched.  So many roses among the thorns.

But the ones who really know me, who really see me...  They know.  When I stop calling.  When I don't check in on Facebook.  When my phone goes to answering machine.  <sigh>  Change.  Time to change.

I have lots to do today and I better get to it.  I will blog again this evening to make up for my errant Sunday night.  Apologies to those who require one.  I will leave you with a beautiful song from a beautiful soul.  Poor Shannon...  Bee Girl...  Always felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb.  Like he didn't fit anywhere...  He hoped so deeply that the birth of his child Nico Blue would keep him grounded, keep him sane.  <sigh>  We love you still Shannon Hoon.  God bless you wherever you are.  And God please make life easy for the ones he left behind.

S.

Day Two: Not an easy battle...

Waited until end of day to compose this second installment of this, the blog from hell.  <'nother deep sigh>  Ain't easy being here in this skin today.

This last round, I had amassed nearly 60 days of clean time.  Not clean "recovery" time,  meaning there were no meetings, stepwork, sponsor's discussions, etc.  Nearly 60 days of living life on my terms.  Not life's terms: My terms.  This is not a winning recipe for recovery or sobriety.

Gratitude comes and goes, came and went.  This is the key to staying sober.  Maintaining a sense of gratitude.  As well, my ego is so strong, so powerful, such a long time protector of my soft, chewy centre.  It can't help but come pulsing forth like some twisted, snakeskin wearing Grendel.  Keeping all those who would dare to hurt me at bay, but in its sad, misguided efforts, turns his poisonous strength against me, trying to protect me from the very feelings that would save my life.

Today was painful... physically, emotionally, intellectually.  My heart hurt today.  From the pain I've inflicted on myself.  Today, my family was wrapped around me so beautifully.  I couldn't help but feel so much shame at what I've put them through, and how they don't deserve any of my bullshit at all.  At all.

Today my body ached; my stomach ached.  My heart thrums like a gyroscope, slightly offcentre, yearning for a true centre.  A centre revealed only by months of sobriety.  Not two days.

My wife is under a lot of pressure.  Financial from my own errant ways, and every other kind of pressure you could imagine.  She is under a lot of pressure to abandon all hope - hope that wears thin after four years of same ol' same ol'...   Pressure from even her own self.

It is hard.  I put her in this position.  I have to sit here and let the clock tick, praying for the ability to make the right choices at this moment in time.  I can't fast forward this clock.  Tick tock, tick tock.  Day two.

Like I said, nearly 60 days thrown away.  I took my will back, as they say, with a vengeance.  Not "Thy will be done," as it should have been, but "My will be done."  My will threatens to kill me.

It is so hard.  Her whole family wants her to leave me.  I don't blame them.  You can't blame them. They love her and try to show it in their own way.  I love her and show her by leaving every couple months.  I can't leave anymore.  This is it.  I have begun to abandon any hope at becoming the man that I know I can become.

I remember when I told my boss back in the day that I was chasing the dragon and working at Canada Place while I was doing it.

"What!?" he said.  "But you do such good work...  You can't be doing that shit!"

"But I'm coasting by on about 20% of my capacity boss," said I.

"Yeah, but your 20% is better than most peoples' 100!" said he, and I believe I have carried that little rationalization close to my heart all this time.  Full of shit.  Full of shit.

My mom...  God bless her heart and soul and fire and fear and love and hate and shame and shine.... God bless her for all that she was and continues to be.

"Your word is no good," she said.  "That is all that you are Shell, that's all that you have" she said.  "You are your word."

<sigh> My word.  So many words.  So much bluster and bluff...  So much protestation, exhortation, rationalization.

Only way to change it, is to change it.

So today I'm reminded about what unconditional love looks like.  And what conditional love looks like.  I am grateful for unconditional love.  So grateful that I will commit to memory just how painful it is to look in the mirror at what I saw the other night, how painful it is to be there, out in the bush, cramped in the back of a truck, alone, in the rain, knowing my children, wife and family are all home, doing their level best to live life while I am doing my level best to subvert it... turn it on its ear and hide from all that is good.

I heard tonight that I wrote somewhere that I nearly raped someone.  Funny.  How even though reality is bad enough, people still have to conjure up ghosts and shadows and bullshit and hate and venom to make it just a little bit worse.

The only thing I'm guilty of raping is this poor person inside of me, the one who quietly suffers the pain of 30 years of addictive behaviour.  This little kid in me who cried long into the night, missing his dad, wanting his mom to be Sandy Duncan... wishing that war and hate would just go away.  Wishing that booze and drugs weren't part of his idealistic little life.

Oh well.  They were.  Can't change the past.  But for the love of all that is holy and good and true and real:  I CAN change it now.  I CAN change it today.  I buried my face in the pillow and sobbed for many years.  Crying for my daddy to come save me from our little poor life.  Crying for God or Jesus to show some pity on our little poor life or little poor me... Chimakinapeesis.  Poor little boy.

Time to let that little helpless boy relax and grow up.  Time to take the helm with meaning, with heart and for all the right reasons.  

I was forced to be a grownup so young, so young.  I think I must have this big fucking chip on my shoulder that says "fuck being a grownup."...  Well fuck being a using addict.  Fuck being an untrustworthy asshole.  Fuck being a victim of my circumstances.  

God has never abandoned me.  I know this with every fibre of my being.  I have felt his touch even after days of numbing inhalation and being hidden behind curtains, dank and dark with must and spooge of all kinds.  Those times, it as though I open my eyes at the end of a long, eyes closed tantrum, kicking and screaming, running and running and hiding and hiding... Open my eyes, blink once or twice, and realize the sun shines still, that my heart beats still.  That those deep feelings of love and compassion and empathy and kindness cannot be snuffed out.  That there they live, in my veins, with their captain, my heart.

Love to all tonight.  Especially to you T. and S. and J. and M. and N. and D. and L. and S.L... 

oh and you too Safflick!

S.

Day One, or "Scraped off the bottom of a shoe."

<long deep sigh>  Well, this is it.   This is the end of the road of ruination and selfish ways, God willing.  The end of a longstanding and habitual dependence on illicit substance to "soothe" my ills, hide my booboos and run headlong into oblivion.

I will not make a promise of "never again" or "I'm done" anymore; how many times, how many people, how many broken bonds and friends' and family's trust laying a shambled heap?  My words have rung emptier with each passing lie.

This is a hard thing to do.

Today I have returned home from nearly seven days "aflight"...  Truth.

Today I have heard truths from my beautiful family that have shaken me to the core.  I have been protected from hearing and seeing how my selfishness affects the others around me.  Today I was shown point blank.

Others can attest that I do not know much about recovery.  About "recommended" or "suggested" methods to recover.  I will be reaching out in the hopes of becoming expert.

I need to bare my soul to do this.  To do this right out in the open.  Nearly 600 Facebook friends, and only a few know the sordid truth.  The ones closest to me know the truth.  Know how my decisions have affected my family, my kids, my life and their lives.

All my life I have been a performer.  Singing for quarters at 3 years old:  "The liquor was spilt on the barroom floor, the bar was closed for the night,  Out of the darkness came a little white mouse, and he gazed and he gazed at the sight,  He licked up the liquor on the barroom floor, and back on his haunches he sat,  All night long you could hear him roar:  "Bring on the Goddamn cat!"  (God bless you Ralph Debock, whereever you are!)

So much of what I've done, about what motivates me, comes from the unwavering eye of the audience.  Ever the performer, ever the "people pleaser", "approval seeker":  Get a few pats on the head, and I start thinking I'm loved.

Little knowing all my life, that love emanates from within, not from without.  I look in the mirror and do not love what I see.  And then I perpetuate that self loathing by continuing to use, continuing to disappear down the darkened alley, wondering why I do not grow in love, do not grow in spiritual connection or fulfillment.

The world/God/Universe steers me to the right path;  God does smile down on drunks and fools and has kept my alive thus far, despite my best attempts to undermine Him.  In fact, he guided me to two different ceremonies this past week, and got me stuck in both places - mired my truck in the mud to keep me there.  Maybe hoping I would smarten up, get out of the truck and go pick up a drum and sing to Him.  I fought tooth and nail.  And whether it was a tractor or four drunk Hutterite boys in a big diesel and vehicle trailer pulling me out, away I went, carrying on as though I knew what I was doing.

I was led to the truth of my actions today.  With work, my home, and with the children who depend on my for love, guidance and the odd greenback.  This is not a pretty thing.  No amount of charming smile or smooth and witty wisecrack will heal the pain I've caused.  No amount of guitar picking songster or deft kitchen touch studmuffin can bring back those nights, those special days that I missed;  that I made about me instead of the people who deserved them.

There is only one way to get through this: One day at a time, sometimes one minute at a time.  Maybe even seconds.  The difference between a thought and an action is measured in nanoseconds.  Sometimes it can feel like a lifetime there in that gap.  My actions have become habitual, decisions shaped by years of use and abuse - be it food, sex, drugs, booze, gambling...  You name it.

I joked the first time I went to treatment in 2001, the first time I had to introduce myself in a fellowship meeting, "my name is Sheldon and I'm an alcho-crack-o-sex-o-pot-aholic gambler."  Add food to that mix too.

My last sober year was about 1981.  I was ten.  I haven't had a sober year since.  I believe in my heart that I need you, the reader (or even an imaginary one!) in order to keep on keepin' on.  I believe I'm fucked up just enough to need an audience for even the most sacred of tasks.  Rather than risk another meltdown and losing the family that needs me, or the job that feeds us, I will go this route:  1) Appeal to God, 2) Seek out some help and guidance from other recovering folk, and 3) Bare my soul and brandish my moldy old shame and self-loathing like some secret talisman, airing it here in the light of your eyes.  I do this because I can't follow the directions that are simply laid out before me by my helpful fellowship guides.

And, as some kind of celestial pat on the shoulder to guide me in this direction, is the reinforcement from Shaw video on demand...

I was thinking this during the week:  Thinking about what it would take to keep me accountable, to keep me honest and walking the path during those times when it was toughest.  How even my beautiful twins, or sons or daughters can not "keep me clean"... How even my most amazing wife Theresa, Saint and stalwart guardian, holder of hands, driver of dancers, band-aider of even the most painful scrape, can not keep me here when the urge beats at my temple like some prehistoric drum, telling me I need street dope like I need lunch or a drink of water.

I need it like I need a hole in my head.

So many tears.  So many long, endless roads... alone.  Drug addled.  Paranoid, delusional.  So far away from all that is real and true.

I was thinking that a daily journal, here with you.  Perhaps that would work.  Fearing another commitment that I will break.  But secretly wanting to heal here in the open.  Needing my time to pontificate and ramble.  Maybe thinking that I can't hold it to 5 minutes.  I thought today that I would start it tonight, but still wondering if it might not be a tad Narcissistic.  Then I sat with my honey and picked "Julie and Julia" while we ate a late lunch/early supper.  Did I mention I love food?

My late grandmother always reminded me of Julia Child... She was and remains a vision of home and hearth; of uncompromising and unwavering and unconditional love.  Oh I miss her so.  How she would feel about her sweet Sheldon acting in this manner, I don't know.

I don't know if the movie is a testament to blogging or speaks against it, it's too early and we had to stop it. (I don't know how it ends yet, as T. had to ditch to go do some preparatory shopping for Our Little Beauty Queen but it matters not:  The concept of working through some of my personal development and finding innovative ways to cope with my affliction with inability-to-complete-anything-itis, (brought to me courtesy of ADD) was too much for me to handle.

What is also funny is that I gained a whole bevy of fans/friends/contacts during my early PF* days, when I used to write the odd self revealing tome on Hi-5.  Some of them are still my friends. I used to write when I was "coming back"  from a few days on the run...

I will work to write daily.  To "check in" with my own self, let fly with the ol' "where I'm at" today biznatch.  I will find some way, to carve up some time and to blog.  Perhaps I will not have internet access wherever I may be.  In that case, I will write a series of days and upload them at some point.

It is my sincere hope that my June 24, 2012, providing we are all still here, I will have amassed my first full 365-day collection of sober days since I rode a BMX and wanted to kiss Maureen Wasson under the spruce trees.

Maybe nobody reads it.  That's ok.  Although all these helpful links and cool videos and shtuff will go to waste.  I will write to share my burdens and write to bear witness to the growth of myself personally; to see what happens when the shift from selfishness to selflessness commences....

"Selfishness.  Self centredness.  That, we think, is the root of our troubles..."

I love my family.  Although there are those who would contest this.  I have missed more holidays and special occasions in the last four years (and longer) than I care to admit.  But I love them deeply and without judgement.

It is myself, perhaps, that I don't love.  That I don't believe deserves happiness and fulfillment.

If you can relate, or if you can't;  If you are an addict, or if you're not;  If you love or if you hate - stay with me a while.

Walk with me towards the light.

Enough for now.

S.

*PF refers to "pre-Facebook"...  ; )