Quiet time? How 'bout some E! News?

So this, along with a bowl of Frosted Flakes, has been my morning routine. What had previously been a good 30 to 60 minutes of quiet contemplation filled with spiritual readings and meditation, has degenerated into a noisy, in-your-face, turbo-charged countdown rocketing me into the day. And how can I really expect to make any spiritual progress when I start it with Ryan Seacrest?

I used to be more disciplined. I used to search for zen and get all 'ohm' but now? I fake it. Sure, I download the latest Krista Tippett to my iPod, keep "Jesus for the Non-religious" and "Christ the Yogi" on my headboard, I even contemplate the spiders I've displaced with my weeding, but true silence? My teenage alter ego says, Fuck that!

I have to admit, I'm a little afraid of what will drive me back to such discipline. Normally, it's pain. And that just doesn't sound like a whole lotta fun. And that speaks to the core of my problem. I want to have fun, I want to be entertained, I want to live without cause or worry or responsibility. And then I have to wake up.

Damn alarm clock!

Maybe one day I'll make it back to my oatmeal with walnuts, my 24-Hours-A-Day book, my Daily Reflections, and my basic text. Maybe one day I'll simply decide, "You know, being all wacked out on sugar and caffeine really isn't helping me!"

But right now, for today? I'll watch with anticipation, waiting for Guiliana to stab Seacrest in the neck with the heal of her Monolo. Those flakes are GRRRREAT!

Oh God, I'm in trouble. . .

Spiritus contra spiritum

Don't you hate oversleeping? It really sucks when such extended snoozing makes you late. Wednesdays are the day the kids and I sleep in, when nobody goes anywhere, and I only work a couple hours at night. Normally this means the coffee mug's in hand by 7 and Maclane's usually on my tail. But today? While Marty shoved off around 7, both kids and I didn't crack open the ol' eyelids until 9:30!!! And when I sleep that late, it's just too much! Unless I'm going to lag around in jammies all day and have only myself to be concerned with. But when I get that much sleep and I've got a couple of kids to man, it just blows. And what blows even worse? Dreaming about WORK! And not just a normal day at the office, but work involving a loved one.

Yesterday I received a phone call about getting a friend into alcohol detox. The previous evening I'd been with this person and was baffled by her behavior--uncontrollable tremors, nonsensical muttering, bizarro stuff that I assumed was some weird residual effect from a bout with cancer she'd had a few years earlier. The phone call told otherwise. By Tuesday, she'd been 3 days off the booze and the hallucinations were setting in. I didn't know she drank.

Despite my work in the field of drug addiction, I froze like a deer in headlights. WTF? I suddenly didn't know the protocol, my only thought was that she needed detox and NOW. Fortunately the caller, her sister, simply needed support and confirmation that what she was seeing was a medical emergency. She took the bold move and called 911. That was the absolute right decision, but not the popular one. Refusing visitors, my friend is sitting in a detox unit as family mulls over their options.

It made me think of a recent episode on This American Life where a man takes care of his mother and likens her alcoholism to that of the possession of Regan from The Exorcist. In our cups, we say and do ANYTHING to cover our ass and get what we want, which is usually 2 things: a) more booze and b) to be left alone. And when we don't get those 2 things, we're horrible to be around. And seeing my friend tonight, I could see the wear and tear. Guilt is setting in as her sister refuses to see her, accusing her of betrayal.

My heart aches for the family because this is nothing new. It was nearly 5 years ago that their brother was found dead in his car. He'd finally drank himself to death, having dragged the family through decades of his alcoholism. He'd had loads of opportunities to get well, but when the question was put to him: "How would you live?" He said, "I'll drink." And he died.

As my friend faces this question, my prayer is that she find a flicker of hope to take one big, giant leap and fathom a reality without booze. It's so scary, that fucking question. So stark. There's no running from it. And it's not answered just once, we must dig deep and answer it everyday, in all that we do.

In his writings to Bill Wilson, co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, psychologist Carl Jung wrote of the strange impact alcohol has on our spiritual core. He termed it "spiritus contra spiritum." Spirits (liquor) against Spirit (soul), a great window into why this is such an ass kicker. . .

Square & generous with all

Making the 4-hour trek to Rochester yesterday, I enjoyed the company of one of my favorite men. Kinda kitschy in my book, I never took him serious. How could I with those fruity trumpets tooting in the background as he sung of some blazing ring? But John has been a long-time friend to my husband (and I try to give my husband's friends a chance).

When Marty and I began dating, it was common for me to drive up to his cabin only to find John had beaten me to the party. Singing about bibles and rusty cages and Tennessee Studs, John's camp and silliness gave way to deeper meaning. Kinda like my interest in Marty. From some goofy RAGBRAIer, I began to glimpse the true depth of my future husband's character. The more I listened to Marty's friend, the more John's soul revealed itself, also revealing Marty's. I started to hear the raggedness of John's spirit, the longing for spiritual peace, and I slowly began to understand how medicinal such sharing was to my husband's love-torn soul. We met only months after his first marriage had ended.

Marty is a man of few words and amazing strength of character. Now before you go thinking he's some quiet sage all bearded and zen, know that he's not lost his wild, irreverent side. For instance, his favorite cuss? Jesus Fuck! Can you believe that?! (And people think I'm going to hell?)

Anyway, as I've journeyed with my dad through this cancer business, Marty, in a way all his own, has been with me, unswerving in his support. Two weeks ago, when I left to accompany Dad for his surgery, we had no idea it'd be 7 days before I'd return home, and without Dad! Could Marty have been a prick? Would he have been justified in being pissy? Hell yeah! But was he? Not only did he back me 100%, assuring me I was doing exactly the right thing, he even had the kids make get well cards for their grampa. And when I did get home, did he dump the kids on me and run for some Marty Time? Nope, he continued to man the home front while I bumbled around. Never once did I pick up even a whisper of exasperation. Amazing.

So where does 'John' fit into all this? Yesterday, when listening to his 1994 album American Recordings I found myself paying close attention to the song "Oh, Bury Me Not" and how much it personified the essence of my husband. Specifically, the following lines:

Just let me live my life as I've begun

And give me work that's open to the sky

Make me a partner of the wind and sun

And I won't ask a life that's soft or high

Let me be easy on the man that's down

Let me be square and generous with all

"Let me be square and generous with all" absolutely speaks of Marty. How I could ever warrant a 10th of this man's love, I'll never know. Back when we first met, Marty and I both agree there was something crazy spiritual about our connection. And yet I was still a drunk, always on the look out for something different, something better and I would pray at night, "Please God, don't let it be Marty. Please!" But God, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, whatever the hell is out there, knew what they were doing. Where the reward is for poor Marty, I don't know. For me? It's him. And I love him somethin' fierce.