writing (Page 3)

Two weeks ago I planted asparagus.
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That means I put the crowns about six inches deep into the earth and covered them up with a couple inches of soil.
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Last week, there were new sprouts.
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I covered all of them with a couple inches of dirt. Next, they’ll get a bit more dirt and a bunch of mulch.
Over the next two to three years we will weed around and care for the plants. In the second or third year, we might pick a few stalks if they are thick enough. We will let the plants grow until the foliage is dead and we’ll cut that back. We will mulch regularly, watching and controlling for cut worms and other pests. In the third or fourth year, we will harvest the fresh asparagus from the strongly established plants. After that, we will harvest for two to three weeks every year over the next twenty years.
The possibilities for poetry — for metaphors and beautiful language — inspired by asparagus so overwhelmed me that I refuse to even try.

In the early 90s, I wanted to be Martha Stewart. This was before she was a terribly famous person, before she went to prison, and before there was FoodTV. Living in Minneapolis with my beautiful boyfriend in his beautiful house, I was certain I could have a beautiful life. There were many reasons that wasn’t going to happen. Foremost among those reasons was my belief that I could be “perfect.” I remember preparing an Easter feast for us and his family that included a leg of lamb stuffed with goat cheese, and… honestly, I’m tiring just thinking of the work that went into making everything hand craftedly “perfect.”
Today, I feel great pleasure making our home a comfortable and warm space. I do enjoy making food from scratch. I might even stuff a roast if it was a special occasion. But the idea that I can do, or would want to do, anything “perfectly” has left my world. I may not like it when our apartment gets cluttered and messy (as it often does) or when I don’t have time to prepare foods as I’d like, but I never feel like I’m missing the mark. It’s not only that I’m aware these days of the staging that made the Martha Stewart show; these days I live comfortably in the knowledge that all of life is “progress, not perfection” and the way I care for my family is much more than sufficient.
(The idea for this blog post came after watching a video my friend Cyndee shared on Facebook. It’s an example of something I might’ve aspired to create back in the early 90s. Ha! :-) )
[facebook url=”https://www.facebook.com/ilikeit.video/videos/983720968371632/” /]

What needs for translation are going unmet in the healthcare system? Assuming people of means don’t have problems with receiving the highest quality care, including translation services, what options are available for the poor? (My yoga instructor’s mother is at the Barron Center where there are NO TRANSLATORS who speak Spanish.)

I mentioned in a Facebook post that while I’m usually full of ideas for columns, I don’t often write down the little starter thoughts I have so I can explore them later. I think I’m going to post these snippet thoughts here on serenebabe.net as a way to keep track of them. Perhaps I’ll also gauge people’s interest if there is a response to one idea more than others. If you have ideas for columns regarding socioeconomic issues and Maine you’d like to see covered, please let me know.

Nineteen years ago today, I was stoned and drunk. I was chatting on AOL. I was sort of house sitting, but really I was crashing at my parents’ friends’ home in Minneapolis/St. Paul. It was hot. No air conditioning. I’d gone to a St. Paul Saints game with a guy I met in a chat room earlier in the day. He was nice, as I recall. I was arranging to have another AOL guy come over later that night.
The night before, I’d celebrated being not an alcoholic at a bar in Uptown by drinking vodka lemonades. I’d stopped drinking—easily it felt—for three months. It didn’t feel difficult to quit, so I must not be an alcoholic, right? What better way to celebrate than getting hammered?
I’ve written about my experience as an alcoholic, a person in long-term recovery, many times. Here, here, or here, for example. In fact, I see now that I certainly repeat myself (the AOL guy and the baseball game shows up at least twice).
One of the reasons I find it so important that I continue talking with other recovering alcoholics about being recovered, or recovering, is that I’ve forgotten what it was like before the desire to drink was lifted. I don’t remember what it’s like to live without hope. I don’t remember what it’s like to wake up in the morning wondering how in the heck I got where I was or what did I do last night?
If I don’t actively talk about my recovery and do some other key things that I’ve learned over the years, my disease—and if that term needs to be defined loosely, that’s fine, it works for me—will use the faded quality of my memories to sneak in and make me think maybe I can drink normally.
There’s an interesting piece in The Atlantic (h/t to my Bangor Daily News editor, Matt Stone) debunking 12-step programs as irrational. It’s funny, because irrationality doesn’t bother me. I think it’s over-rated. The article has some great points and some misguided ideas. What I like, though, is that it’s being discussed in public.
When I got sober (entered recovery, I guess is the best way to describe it these days) in Minneapolis, everyone I knew was sober. Everywhere I went, people were in recovery. It was almost a badge of honor to be in recovery, really. They call it “land of 10,000 treatment centers,” don’t they? (They do.)
After moving to Houston, and then to Maine, I regularly forgot that not everyone finds it completely no big deal to be in recovery. It’s such a natural part of my life, it feels not at all controversial. When I watched Anonymous People—I highly recommend it, especially if you are in recovery—I realized that my casual attitude was sort of radical.
As I think about where I’m going with this blog post, I’m reminded of the amazing lesson I learned in recovery: my foibles can benefit others. I can be “all over the place” with an imperfectly formed essay that rambles around and touches on some points but doesn’t really make one major point and it’s okay. My life is and will be—if I keep doing the things I’ve learned are most helpful for me—all about “progress, not perfection.”
(edited to add: 19 years ago tomorrow, I hadn’t had a drink or drug for 24 hours and haven’t found it necessary to drink or drug since then…)