Alcoholic Courage…..shelter from the storm

it is raining. 5:30 am Friday, November 22.  Where were you the day President John F Kennedy was assassinated?  I was walking up the steps to orchestra class at James Monroe School in South Bend, Indiana.  I loved playing the violin.  I alternated between first and second chair, trading weekly with a boy whose name now eludes me.  He was really the better player because he had a vibrato, a vibration of the strings created by the wrist moving at the neck of the violin.  I never mastered the movement.  Midway up the marble staircase, violin in hand, I stopped.  Someone below was screaming, “The President is dead.  They killed him.”  Today is the 50th anniversary of his death.

Funny I remember what was going on in the world in November, 1963.  I remember being in school, playing the violin.  I was in the 7th grade.  Jill Small and Alice were my best friends.  We went everywhere together.  Jill came from a broken home.  Her mother, Ann, raised her and her sister, Patti.  Ann got child support and the girls saw their father with some frequency.  When he came for his weekly  visits, he always brought stacks of 45’s with him.  He put records in jute boxes for a living.  Boy, did we have fun dancing to the music he gave us, songs like The Locomotion, Sugar Shack, He’s So fine, Hey Paula and Wipe Out.  We danced all day on Saturdays and as many day as possible after school let out.  Jill’s Mom worked full-time at a pharmacy so we had their house all to ourselves.  Her mother even let us have slumber parties.  One night we got into a huge pillow fight and one of the down pillows exploded.  Picking up down feathers requires great patience.  During one of our weekly slumber parties. I pierced my own ears.  I went home the next morning with safety pins hanging from both lobes. Those were the days.

Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.

Then the busy years went rushing by us
We lost our starry notions on the way
If by chance I’d see you in the tavern
We’d smile at one another and we’d say

Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days

Just tonight I stood before the tavern
Nothing seemed the way it used to be
In the glass I saw a strange reflection
Was that lonely woman really me

Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days

Lyrics by Mary Hopkin

Alcohol, the word that next comes to mind, and lots of questions.  Had I yet met the first love, Mick Stilson, the boy who initiated me into daily sex and regular alcohol consumption?  I am not sure.  I do know that my life changed after the assassination of JFK.  Somehow the President’s charm, his charisma had given me hope.  Sure, I enjoyed dancing with my friends, pulling phone pranks, piercing my ears, playing croquet on warm summer days, walking to the drug store for coke floats, going to weekend end church  dances, learning to wear make-up, and all the other things young girls did in 1963.  But, and this is a big BUT, life at my house, at 524 Altgeld Street, continued to be a war zone. I would liken our home to occupied Iraq.  Nine of us living in a two bedroom one bath house. Me, at 12 years old, sharing a bed and bedroom with my grandmother.  My father and step mother sleeping in the attic with the youngest of their 5 children in separate cribs, side by side.  My other three brothers sharing a small room fitted with a twin bed and a trundle-bed.

I remember pictures of my three brothers lined up in stair step order, like little soldiers in our claw foot bath tub.  We all doubled up on baths to save on the cost of hot water.  My Dad did not work or if he did, it was sporadic at best.  He had a bad habit of telling people they were stupid and inept.  His attitude did not go over well with his cronies or his clients.  He sold insurance or so he said.  I remember him sleeping until 3 pm in the afternoon, grandma fixing his breakfast, him sitting in his robe, with coffee cup in hand, on the living room couch reading the newspaper until dinner time.  How much money could he have made doing that?  All the while, my step mother worked full-time managing a local department store.  She cooked, cleaned and did her best to mother her brood.  As a child I hated her.  I saw her as the woman who took my Daddy away from me.  Little did I know then that she probably saved my life.  Her presence made it for my father to sexually abuse me.

JFK died.  I started drinking, hanging out with the “wrong crowd,” the kids who drank and smoked cigarettes.  I quit violin, gave up years of lessons and practice so I could go to Mick’s house after school and have sex.  When Mick and I broke up, which happened with some regularity,  I went to the roller rink where the older boys, the ones who drove “souped up” cars and had duck tailed hair dos like John Trivolta in Grease hung out.

I started shop lifting so I could have the clothes I thought I deserved.  I stayed away from home as much as possible avoiding the fights, the physical and verbal abuse, the arguments about money, and my father constantly picking on my brother Scott, who could do nothing right.  My friends did not come over to spend the night at my house.  They couldn’t.  Where would they sleep….with me and grandma in our double bed?  We did not play there after school.   Alcohol became an escape for me.  After a few sips of bourbon or a couple of beers, I felt invincible.  I dreamed dreams of getting out of South Bend, Indiana, of making something of my life.

I believe that drinking helped me survive those terrible times.  It gave me hope, it cushioned the harshness of a scary home life, and it helped me to have fun.  There is no doubt in my mind that the Divine Mother was looking out for me.  I somehow managed not to get pregnant, not to be involved in one of the many car wrecks that claimed the lives or bodies of my friends, and not to give up on school.  I continued, in the midst of all the chaos, to make straight A’s.  Because I was a good student, teachers took interest in me.  Their faith in me coupled with my belief that I could make a better life for myself gave me the courage to leave, to move to Memphis, to start a new life.

Alcohol traveled with me to Memphis.  In fact, she (I like to refer to her as Rose) made herself at home. My mother and step father drank daily and always included me in their cocktail rituals.  There was no turning back now.  I was hooked.  I loved the rush that first sip of booze gives you when it touches your tongue.  What would life be like without it?  BETTER!  I know that but I keep on drinking.  10 years of sobriety, 1900-2000, taught me many things. The memory of bliss lingers.  I remember learning that nothing in life is worth drinking over.  I want that again.  Thy will be done.  Even though alcohol promises safety, I know the promise is a false one.  John O’Donohue writes,

Blessed be the longing that brought you here

And quickens your soul with wonder.

May you have the courage to listen to the voice of desire

That disturbs you when you have settled for something safe.

Still working on it. I am stone cold sober and loving every minute of it.  I will not give up.  One day at a time.  Maybe this will be Day 1.

Thy Will Be Done

Sitting, writing my morning pages at 6 am.  Thy will be done.  I love writing those 4 words.  thy will be done.  As I have worked through the chapters of The Artist Way, I have returned to a faith in The Divine.  What do I want to write about today? It has been so much fun to live an inspired life, to write every day, and to watch the words spill out onto the page.  I spent years wanting to do exactly what I am doing today.  Now that my time has come, I ask God daily to use me for the highest good of all.

I read recently that Flannery O’Conner prayed to be a channel for God, to write and to be read.   She humbly asked for guidance.  She asked God to help her publish her work.  I vividly remember the first time I read one of her works, The Artificial Nigger. The realism of her writing stunned me.  She faced the racial issues of her time head on.  She was a Southern who dared to speak out against racial prejudice.  She published multiple books and short stories and was widely read.  I would say her prayers were answered.  O’Connor completed more than two dozen short stories and two novels while battling lupus. She died on August 3, 1964, at the age of 39, of complications from the disease.  She never married.I asked God today to help me keep writing, to work and keep working until I publish something anything and then to keep writing and publish more.  I believe that it is my destiny to tell my story, but I know that if I am wrong, the work I am doing now will guide me in the direction I need to go.  Today, I know I must write if I am to fulfill my purpose here on earth.  I still have no idea where all this writing will take me, but I have faith that it is the road I must now travel.  I know that my story is your story, a story of heart ache, disappointment, rejection, and struggle.  But it is also a story of hope, redemption, healing, transformation, love, desire and blessings beyond measure.

In his book, To Bless the Space Between Us, John O’Donohue repeatedly mentions new beginnings and thresholds of change.  “Nothing is rushed,” he says.  “Change arrives in nature when the time has ripened.”  I feel myself ripening, coming into fruition, trusting my desire to write, to be a public speaker, and to tell my story so that others can tell theirs.

When my husband and I attended, Yogarupa Rod Stryker’s Yoga of Fulfillment (now called The Four Desires) Workshop, we learned about Dharma Code.  Yogarupa said, “Each one of us is a note in the symphony of creation – if we don’t play that note, the music isn’t completely clear” – and this is why we all need to discover our purpose, and live our dharma code.”  More recently he said this, “Your soul is boundlessly impassioned and always ready to impart you whatever you need to thrive.”  I believe this to be true.  I have experienced this boundlessness.  I know if I ask for what I need and I align myself with my highest purpose, I will succeed.

John O’Donohue writes, “To change is one of the greatest dreams of every heart – to change the limitations, the sameness, the banality, or the pain.  It demands courage and a sense of trust in whatever is emerging.”   We must believe that somehow life needed us and wanted us to be.  To accept that we are needed is to be free of fear.  I accept.  Thy will be done.

Transformation

I ran into Anne Wike, a friend, fellow yogini and one time student of mine, at Wiseacre Brewery last Thursday night.
“Sarla I want to tell you something I remember from teacher training years ago.  I will never forget it.  You said you believe in transformation.”  I smiled and gave her a hug.  Little did she know that her memory would transform something deep inside me.

This morning after reading an excerpt from John O’Donohue’s To Bless The Space Between Us, I sat down at my kitchen table and wrote my morning pages.  Here is what came up:

What does it mean to be called, to answer the call?  Being “called” does not guarantee financial security.  To the contrary, it is a “great challenge to inhabit our own individuality and to discover which life-form best expresses it.”  How am I called to be me?  I must learn to become who I was dreamed to be.  I must be authentic.  I must listen intently to the voice of my Soul.  What did my Soul say this morning?

Be generous with your time and money.  Create without concern for reward.  Be fully present to each delicate moment life offers.  Listen, tune in when others speak.  Watch the world around you unfold, change, and evolve minute by minute.  The seasons change, day drives into night, trees move sometimes gently with the wind and then they are thrashed by violent storms.  Look into the eye of the “other” with an inquiring mind and a compassionate heart. Play.  Surrender graciously that which must end.  Accept and own your unique purpose.  Acknowledge that I am, that you are, we are all miracles.  “We were dreamed for a long time before we were born.  Our souls, minds, and hearts fashioned in the Divine imagination.”  Give yourself completely to the world.  Help others find their purpose for being.

Delight in the laughter of your grand child as she learns to experience, digest and assimilate the mysteries of life….joy, sorrow, truth, confusion, love, betrayal, trust, and disappointment.  Walk tall.  Carry yourself like the queen that you are.  Be still.  Willingly stop each day.  Turn you face to the light of God, the Divine Mother in and around you.  Pray for guidance.  Care for the temple of your soul.  Breathe deep, long, conscious breaths.  Have faith.  Never give up.  Remember what you have accomplished and use the memories to fuel your future.  Continue to expand, to grow and to change.  There is no limitation too great.  You will conquer all obstacles.  This is your path.

Forgive all others especially your mother and father whose actions drove you to fulfill your greatest potential.  They gave you life.  Do not fear the mistakes.  There are no mistakes.  How many times have I stumbled upon unexpected delight at the bottom of the garbage can of life.  The Buddhists say the brightest gems, the greats joys lie hidden under piles of rubbish.   All the darkness will pass into the Light.

Why are we afraid to be powerless, afraid to be  close, afraid to speak our truth?  Here I am writing, trying to put down on paper what it means to me to “be called.”  I am called, Sarla Elizabeth Sinclair Nichols.  At 62 years old, I stand before you ready to commit to being all that I can be in this moment.  I cannot see what lies ahead, but I can take the next step and the next and the next.  I can become more than I am in this moment, more fully realized, more alive, and move aware.  If I stumble and fall, I will pick myself up.  If I cannot, someone else will.  Then I will go on to the end believing in transformation.

Resurrecting the Past

I am  in our bed snuggled up next to my grandmother as she reads stories from the Bible.  This nightly ritual gave me a deep respect and reverence for the miracles that Jesus performed.  I believe that He did turn water into wine, that he fed thousands with a few loaves of bread and that he did raise Lazarus from the dead.  Do I call myself a Christian?  No more than I call myself a Democrat or a Republican.  I believe in what I know to be true in my heart.  I do not need a label to prove my faith or my politics.

Back to the story of Lazarus and what his resurrection means to me today.  I am working to recover long-lost memories from childhood.  I recall many things about my first 4 years, but I have little recollection of the time after.  My next full screen memory appears at age 15 when I started dieting.  I measured  5′ 4″ and weighed 115 pounds.  I deemed myself grossly overweight and proceeded to starve myself for the next 30 years.  But that is a story for another day.  In my effort to retrieve my lost past, I am pouring over pictures, reading accounts of national events from that era and talking to people who I knew at that time.

Why am I doing this?  Good question.  I believe that I must resurrect the past if I am to live fully in the present.  In one of my recurring dreams, I know there is an unfinished room in the house where I am living.  I am not aware of the lost room until friends come to visit and I need more bedrooms to accommodate my guests. Haunted by the idea that there is a lost room, I go search the entire house-top to bottom.  I always find the mystery bedroom at the far reaches of my house.  It appears to be an addition, but it is old and rundown.   The roof leaks.  Broken floor boards reveal gaping holes that prevent full access to the room.  A dilapidated, unmade bed leans against the far right wall.  I think the room holds potential, but I am overwhelmed by the work required to fix it up.  I inevitably leave the room as it is, closing the door behind me.  When I leave, I feel terribly let down.  I know I am leaving a part of myself behind.

Can I. like Jesus, ever resurrect this room? Can I make it whole?  Why has it been abandoned for so many years, left to languish?  I must find the answer to this questions, because I know this room is the master-key that will unlock my lost memories.

In his book, To Bless the Space Between Us, John O’Donohue writes a blessing,      For Someone Awakening to the Trauma of His or Her Past.

Now the act of seeing begins your work of mourning.

And  your memory is ready to show you everything,

Having waited all these years for you to return and know.

Only you know where the casket of pain is interred.

You will have to scrape through all the layers of covering,

And according to your readiness, everything will open.

May you be blessed with a wise and compassionate guide

Who can accompany you through the fear and grief

Until you heart had wept its way to your true self.