Can it be called sobriety if one was never quite an alcoholic in the first place? 

That’s a big question, bigger than the scope of a single blog post like this.

Personally, I’m calling it such, as this marks the 1000th day in which I haven’t had an alcoholic drink, and 1000 days of sobriety sounds more thrilling than 1000 days of not drinking. 

I’m also open to the fact that while I may not have been a raging alcoholic, it was one of the off-shoots of the path I was headed down a number of years ago, a path I once glamorized and embraced and perhaps exaggerated in the way that we want our artists and creators to be dramatically suffering. When the real world creeps in and shows you what true suffering and loss is, one doesn’t feel the need to pretend as much. 

While I may have had my last drink on October 26, 2019, the trajectory I had been on in the year or two prior to that was one of slowing and cutting back drastically on the thing that once felt like a normal part of life. In the years leading up to my quitting, I’d found that alcohol no longer brought the same thrill and enjoyment it once did – mornings spent quietly hung over felt regretful, while the actual moments of drinking felt more robotic and a force of habit, as I slowly came to the realization that I was merely trying to attain some semblance of comfort in an ill-fitting world. It was partly a way of dealing with events where social anxiety ran high (and for me that was almost all the time) and also of dealing with a world where we all have to go it alone. Elaine Stritch once explained that she would take a drink before going onstage because it was scary going out there alone. I felt the same way about life. No matter how many friends or supporters you may have, no matter how married or partnered up you might be, and no matter how many people genuinely and unconditionally love you, we still go out into the world alone. All of us. And that’s daunting. If I once needed a drink to feel ok about that, I can forgive myself for it. 

When I figured some of that out, however, the need for alcohol instantly left my body. It wasn’t difficult to stop cold turkey, and though it felt somewhat foreign and strange 1000 days ago, today it feels easy and unremarkable. The ease with which I was able to do that without withdrawal was a lucky thing. Maybe it meant I wasn’t truly an alcoholic. Maybe I was an alcoholic who found the right combination of tools to stop. Everyone wants to label everyone else, myself included, but that rarely helps. I’m humble and smart enough to acknowledge that alcohol wasn’t helping, and it was healthier to simply stop. 

Overall, the last 1000 days have been calmer and happier than many other 1000-day stretches in my life. Considering the insanity of the world at this time, I’ll chalk it up as a great success, and one that I’d like to continue. 

For the first ten years of our relationship, it wasn’t legal for Andy and I to be married in New York State, so we celebrated our anniversary using the day we met. For the most part, we’d been together since that fateful night, so it made sense, and July 23, 2000 has always felt like an auspicious date. 

Cut to twenty two years later, wherein we celebrate another year together, and offer gratitude to not have to go through the last two-plus decades entirely on our own. We’re still very independent people, we’re still as different as we often appear to be, but in many ways we’re still as happily compatible and in love as we were on that day so many years ago. And Andy is still the one… 

During our first months of dating, this trite Shania Twain song was finishing its epic run on the charts. I came to many songs late, taking my time to wrap my head around them and appreciating their melodies, so while the world had long since stopped listening to this one, I was just getting into it. I played it many times in the early days of dating Andy, wondering if one day I’d be able to play it and look back over the shared history of a life together. I almost didn’t dare to wish for it, but the heart knows what it wants. 

These days there’s a security and warmth to our marriage, a reassuring camaraderie that has happily replaced the rollercoaster of passionate, obsessive love that was once a trademark of our romantic entanglements. We had those crazy days, and they served their purpose and provided many memories (perhaps a bit too much excitement!), and now we’re evolving into something deeper and quieter and better. As we ride into the latter half of our lives, we appreciate that a lot more. 

Happy Anniversary, Andy. I love you. 

Stultifyingly-hot temperatures, soaring humidity, and the sweaty mess that results – this is when summer turns to high, and after several summers that never quite got off the ground, we are embracing this one. A bit of discomfort is a small price to pay for such glorious summer weather, and whenever I find myself about to complain about the heat, the desolate memory of an expanse of snow and ice blanketing the pool comes to mind, and I inhale the happy heat and carry on with the day.

Smoky and hazy days lead to sultry nights, and the slow-burn of a jazzy torch song breaks the midnight silence. For the day, something equally languid and spell-binding, such as this tune by REM – ‘Summer Turns to High’ from their ‘Reveal’ album – the ideal embodiment of the heady and hot days we’ve been having of late. 

mercury is rising still
turn the fan on high
I won’t step on my own shadow
no one wants to cry

someone put a pox on me
I’ll spit in their eye

summer turns to high

Lounging about the pool, in between dips, slowly reading the same page of a book over and over again because the brain is too hot and fuzzy to make sense of it – this is summer gladness and summer madness. Plans crumble in such heat, outfit-plotting becomes about survival and comfort rather than fashion or fit. A towel in most instances will do, and nobody bothers with shoes anymore. 

with my bedsheet cape and sandals
circle citronella candles
summer’s here, the light is raising
hopes and dragonflies

If those hopes are overshadowed,
cotton candy, caramel apple.

summer turns to high
summer turns to high
summer turns to high,
summer high

An attitude of ‘fuck-it-all’ pervades in the giddiest and most polite manner possible. A tricky thing to navigate, unless it’s summer, then anything goes and no one seems to mind. A carelessness pervades the messy days, all imperfection and sweat, and dousing oneself in the water of a hose while watering the gardens… it’s all here, and it’s all right. 

after wine and nectarines
the fireflies in time
move like syrup through the evening
with a sweet resign

I won’t pine for what could have been-
I’m preoccupied

summer turns to high
summer turns to high
summer turns to high,
summer high.

Never has summer moved more swiftly than this one – and so many wonderful things have already happened that I seek ways to slow down and inhabit the moment. I understand quite profoundly that it will likely never be quite like this again, and I hold the minutes closer. To that end, a recap of the previous week…

A visit from this birthday boy rekindled happy memories, and well over a double decade of friendship moments. 

While July is releasing some of it stifling heat and humidity, there are ways to stay fresh and cool, starting with a yard full of ferns. 

A bright refreshing thirst-quencher entirely devoid of alcohol is this year’s summer mocktail, the Calamansi Cooler. 

This is what I do – I push people – especially if it’s in the name of meditation. 

Summer is so often about the big and brash and bold, we forget that the smaller, quieter moments are just as important. 

A brief snippet of a post – no more than an echo really, a whisper. 

A bit of business, as my agency is currently recruiting for a few very important positions. 

When the world seems to have lost it bearings, there are still things that happen every year at around the same time, and the blooming of this balloon flower is one of those happy events. 

The full Buck Moon should have switched out the ‘B’ for an ‘F’ because all sorts of full-moon mayhem occurred. 

A bamboo summer should be calm and contemplative, inviting serenity and tranquility, carving out the place for peace and contentment. 

Off of their prairie home turf, certain queens falter and flail, and I can completely empathize. 

The week ended, and began, with this butterfly’s lesson, which managed to be tattered, torn, and anything but tragic. 

From a distance, it was splendor and enchantment – a semi-circle of cream tinged with spots of Robin’s egg blue and hints of rust. Fluttering from the Korean lilac to the ostrich fern and back again, it charmed on this sunny summer day, demanding a closer inspection, demanding a second look. Butterflies often play this game.

When I approached, it didn’t flit away like they often will. Instead, it paused for me to see its tattered and torn wings, the way pieces of it were missing, the way it was incomplete. Undulating its wings gently, it seemed to rest there with a certain weariness, not able to garnish the energy to fly swiftly away. 

The world isn’t always kind to pretty things.  

How it came to be in such a state, we will never know. Maybe it was some terrible storm that knocked it about, flinging it into brush and debris and ripping apart some of its decoration. Maybe a hungry bird pecked away at it before giving up, the pattern working its magic of confusing the predator, allowing the butterfly to escape without damage to its vital organs. Maybe it wound itself into a thorny predicament where the only way out was to rip some of itself off to get out. I can empathize with all of those scenarios. 

The world isn’t always kind to many things.