Today’s essay is part of a new series by a group of male writers who have together tackled the same topic in different ways throughout each quarter of the last 18 months. In the past, we’ve explored our thoughts on Fatherhood, Recovery, Money, Trust, Home, and Personal Life Philosophies. This week, we look at the idea of Ordinary Things. Please take a read of my friend’s essays this week, including and .

I like studying words and how they change in our lexicon over time. Words are the nutrition of writers.

Ordinary is a word to describe something usual. Other synonyms to ordinary are normal, everyday, run of the mill, routine, regular, customary, standard, and unremarkable—among many others. You get the point.

The new normal.

An ordinary day.

A routine investigation.

As if…

Unique is most definitely not listed as a synonym of ordinary. Should it be?

What makes something ordinary? According to the synonyms, something that is part of a routine? Something regularly done? Something routinely done or applied? Is a thing or activity ordinary because it’s shared with many others? Who defines what is ordinary?

What is ordinary to one person is truly extraordinary to another.

Imagine the routine of a soldier living temporarily in a forward camp of a hostile country. Nothing that soldier does each morning to prepare for his or her day is ordinary to anyone else outside of that camp. It may very well be ordinary to those with whom that soldier shares camp, but only due to extraordinary circumstances. Awakening to the possibility of violence and death. Checking defenses and loading weapons. Reading intelligence. Perhaps the only activity in their morning that could be considered common to any one of us is their biology—their morning feeding, constitutions, reading, and perhaps prayer. Even those common things wouldn’t be ordinary to most of us given the setting. How many of us take a loaded gun to the toilet with us?

Is it geography then that determines what is ordinary? Is it timing? Or is it perspective? Context?

Also imagine the routine of a working mother with three young children and a pet. She arises each morning with a tight schedule of feeding, cajoling, consoling, dressing, wrangling, cleaning—all on a tight schedule—trying to get the family out the door on time. An ordinary morning for her.

With my own life experiences in mind, I can’t imagine two scenarios more extraordinary to my own.

The one commonality between the two scenarios above is that both individuals awaken—put their feet on the floor—and begin with the protection and caring of others as their primary mission for those morning moments. From there those paths diverge. Certainly, they may each have common events in their days—but little could be said to be common between them.

If something isn’t shared between people, is it really common? If each is to its own how ordinary can that be?

I look at the ordinary things in my own life. I’ve written about how those things are what force me to be present in my life. Breathing. Focusing on my dog’s snoring and dreaming. One bite at a time. The practice—and it is a practice—of focusing on one small, ordinary thing at a time brings quite extraordinary results. What is found in those fully contained moments brings joy and gratitude.

Back to those two scenarios presented earlier in the essay, I too rise and give most of my initial focus to caring for others before I focus on myself. The dogs come first. Well actually my bride comes first but she has her own gifts of routine that are separate from mine. I get the dogs up—or to be precise they get me up—get them watered and fed and out the door for their business prior to paying attention to my own needs.

The ordinary and routine nature of my mornings is hardly common to very many other people. Others have dogs or cats to be sure, but for the most part my ordinary is unique to me, and the ordinary of others is unique to them.

I chose to get clean and sober after decades of substance abuse. Hardly ordinary as the odds were/are stacked against me to stay that way. Choosing the sober, self-examined path is what this newsletter is all about. As my friend Bowen wrote on Wednesday in his offering on Ordinary,

So if life—and the modern world around us—is addictive by its very nature, then by extension it is extraordinary to live a life of sobriety and inner work.

I’ve chosen to rescue dogs for the last 30+ years of my life. Ordinary for me to spend copious time and treasure to make sure their lives are special. Hardly ordinary to many others.

I chose to get married. So? For the first time at age 65. Most readers would hardly find that ordinary.

As fellow human beings what do we all actually share in common?

We’re alive. No ordinary feat. Life can be a relentless challenge that toughens you, or it can be a lazy roll through a comfortable existence that softens you. Either way you’ll face non-ordinary shit at some point that will largely define you. Part of what makes writers special is their ability to dig into their own personal stories of trauma and adventure—and either document it—or create characters and storylines that grow from it.

How about work? Is there really an ordinary day at work for people? Certainly it depends on the job. An ordinary day for an ER nurse is wildly different from a routine day for a school bus driver—from an IT support person—from a chef in a Michelin 3-star restaurant—from an airline pilot.

Ordinary people do ordinary things—for them—that are quite extraordinary in the judgment of others.

Last year my bride and I had an opportunity offered to us by our good friend Susan Ford Bales. She is the only daughter of President Gerald Ford and First Lady Betty Ford. The connections run deep for both Ann and me, and we’ve both had many years working in service to the wonderful Betty Ford Center. Susan invited us to be her guests for an author’s evening up the road in Austin at the Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library. The evening was to discuss the recent release of Richard Norton Smith’s book, An Ordinary Man, The Surprising Life and Historic Presidency of Gerald R. Ford. The author sat center stage winged by Susan Ford on one side and Luci Baines Johnson, the youngest daughter of LBJ on the other. Ninety minutes of storytelling ensued, followed by a dinner hosted by Luci in the private dining room. Ann and I—invited by our friend to sit at the head table—snuck a wink and a nod at each other several times throughout the evening. Holy shit! This is interesting and pretty extraordinary.

Author and Historian Richard Norton Smith, who has written about several Presidents and public figures, was a Pulitzer Prize finalist in 1983 for his portrayal of Thomas E. Dewey. His premise for the Ford book centered on the many reasons why Gerald Ford was a man who lived an ordinary life and rose to extraordinary things. As I laid out in the very first paragraph of this essay, I call some bullshit on that definition. What exactly is ordinary about captaining the University of Michigan football team, attending Yale Law School, serving in the Naval Reserve, and then rising through the ranks of politics to become the only serving President never elected to the post??

I’ve hung out with world champion and Olympic medal-winning athletes for much of my professional career. Having had a closer glimpse into what it actually takes to achieve those heights, I’m convinced that while those men and women have a daily routine that seems ordinary to them, it would not qualify as run-of-the-mill to me or many others.

My high school basketball team was 29-3 and lost the state championship game by a single point. The Clayton Greyhounds were a legendary small school program in the St. Louis area, led by an equally legendary coach Dawson Pike. I’ll never forget his leading us into a game against an athletically dominant team that we’d never once beaten in years of trying. As we were sitting there trying not to be intimidated, Coach said, boys, those guys over there are just normal dudes like you. They don’t hang their pants on the wall and jump into them—they pull them on one leg at a time just like you do.

What is the common refrain from the neighbors when being interviewed by the bubble-headed local news reporter after a major incident? They seemed so normal. There was nothing out of the ordinary as far as we could see. Yeah sure, except the bomb-building going on the basement and the strange smells and people coming to the house at all times of the day and night. The neighbors were all clearly engaged in an ordinary night of binging Netflix and eating ice cream and not paying much attention to the goings-on of their neighbors.

Think about how the words ordinary or common have been used as a class definition or a downright insult over time. Commoners. The Proletariat. The working man. The Middle Class. The average American. The common criminal.

Ohh no dear you can’t possibly marry him—he’s so common. I’ve never even heard of his family for Gods sake? No No he just won’t do.

Contrary to what I’ve penned in these paragraphs, those of you who have read my work previously know that I treasure simple moments and the joy they bring. Ordinarily I revel in the normal—the regular—the routine. Those moments are vital to my recovery. It is exactly those things that anchor me to an honest and humble self-appraisal of my own part in the world.

However, upon further examination—which is what I do these days—I find more underneath the definitions. What was once ordinary to me was running. I ran to and from things quickly and often without thinking. Now not so much. So which was normal? It’s context then.

In our current culture, it seems that a wish for ordinary might just be a desire for peace. For a time without societal disruption. A time without someone else imposing rules upon us. A day without some news from somewhere that creates fear or outrage. But that ain’t life.

We are all—each to our own and to each other—spirits living in a material world. The mere act of living is extraordinary. I say fuck ordinary.

There is no political solution
To our troubled evolution
Have no faith in constitution
There is no bloody revolution
We are spirits in the material world

Our so-called leaders speak
With words they try to jail you
They subjugate the meek
But it's the rhetoric of failure
We are spirits in the material world

Where does the answer lie?
Living from day to day
If it's something we can't buy
There must be another way
We are spirits in the material world

Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner 1981

If you liked today’s offering, please smash that Like button and feel free to share around with your own readers. I appreciate you tuning in to our series this quarter on Ordinary.

This final 2024 series is each of us exploring what our personal life philosophies are—and have become. I hope you’re able to read and enjoy each of these fine writer’s essays in this series and beyond. have each written their own contributions earlier this week. will follow mine tomorrow.

Enjoy. If any of this resonates with you, we’d all appreciate your comments and your shares. Thank you in advance for your support by reading.

I put my feet on the floor. A small prayer of gratitude. Quick check for any new pains or hitches in my git-along. Kisses and rubbies all around to my bedroom mates—two-legged and four alike. I am alive. I am healthy. I am loved. This could be as good as it gets today. And it is very good. I have hope—and plans—of more to come today. But if it does not, I can accept that.

What drives me to remain young at heart despite an obviously aging container?

What makes me want to give at least as much as I often take?

What is it inside of me that requires me to continue to learn?

Why must I—given the suffering I’ve already survived—suffer more?

How can I better grab onto and hold moments of joy when they are fleeing so quickly away from me?

How do I let more love in so that I’m full enough to generously hand it out?

Why does it seem that every time I’m sure that I have it figured out does life hand me a giant “nope—you don’t?”

When will I be able to coalesce and articulate the energies and lessons I’ve received?

What more must I shed of the old ways to make space for the new and better?

Where do various philosophies meet and blend in my own becoming?

How? When? Why? What? Where?

The questions of our lives. The answers are sometimes as clear as mud. We search our whole lives through for clarity and purpose and love and understanding. Sometimes we come upon the answers accidentally. Many of the answers come cumulatively with time. Wisdom is in the practical application of those lessons and answers. Mostly more questions arise. For someone like me who has always plunged ahead, that question is often, How did I miss that? How did that happen?

I think of the oft referenced Talking Heads song, Once in a Lifetime.

“And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack

And you may find yourself in another part of the world

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife

And you may ask yourself, "Well, how did I get here?”

I was not raised as a thinker. Not as a scholar. I did fine and got good grades in public school and went to a wonderful university. My education was forged in the fire of experience. Reading about it just didn’t work for me. Debating it was just as ineffective. I don’t honestly remember taking a Philosophy class although I’m sure I must have. Books were merely tools of school. I didn’t develop a personal book-reading habit until my twenties. Life was too busy being lived. Singing, dancing, playing, tackling, running, winning, losing. Constant motion—and a fair number of bloody noses, cut lips, broken bones, crashed cars, broken hearts, stints in jail—on the rare occasions when the motion stopped.

From Marcus Aurelius “Meditations” here is #40 from Book 7: “Life must be reaped like the ripe ears of corn. One man is born; another dies.” I never read this—never knew of Meditations. But it was how I’ve lived much of my life.

Author James Clear wrote this in today’s newsletter. Of course he did. “You are better equipped to deal with stress when you are moving. When you feel tense or frustrated or worried, it is difficult to think your way into feeling better. The more you think about the situation, the larger it becomes in your mind. Trying to think your way out of it often leads to a spiral of overthinking and rumination.

The first step is not to think something different, but to do something different. It doesn’t matter what. Stretch on the floor, go for a walk, work on a project. Get out of your mind and move your body.”

I’ve never had motion sickness—but I’ve surely had sitting sickness.

Unlike several of my peers in this men’s writing group, I never read Kant or Socrates or Kierkegaard or any number of other philosophers when I was young—I don’t remember reading many of the classic writers either.

So how does one otherwise find a personal philosophy to live by?

Well, in my case, by living—and nearly dying a few times over—and then living again. I have found my wisdom in other, more visceral ways. For example, although I talk about it and write about it frequently, it is only in my later years that I discovered Stoicism. When I first encountered the writings of Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius and Zeno and Seneca and Cleanthes, it resonated with me. The man who brought Stoicism to my consciousness many years ago was modern author Ryan Holiday. His podcast—and several of his books, particularly Ego is the Enemy—were like mini-explosions in my head and heart. It was a Eureka! moment. I’d not read anything with ancient roots that so aligned with my life of sobriety and ongoing recovery.

Can Recovery from drugs and alcohol be a personal life philosophy? To be sure. The principles of recovery, developed by AA co-founders Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob Smith, align deeply with various ancient texts about how to live one’s life. The context of self-examination, self-honesty, treating others with respect, keeping your own side of the street clean, making amends for past mistakes, letting go of issues outside of our control—these principles echo deeply in the Bible and other historic, religious texts and philosophies.

Wisdom in long-term recovery is developed by assembling and internalizing these principles into our own lives urgently in order to maintain our sobriety. The resulting Sober Mind then can uncover the truth about alcoholism and addictive behaviors—not as a physiological malady—but as a spiritual one.

What I have found wisdom to be is the stripping away of non-essentials. A decluttering of useless detritus—a simplification. What has struck me at my age is that when one embarks on a disposition of the external, the internal has more space to grow full. This isn’t easy for me or for anyone I would suspect. I like nice things. So clearly part of the exercise here is in the letting go. Ahhh…patience grasshopper.

When does this begin for us? Does it ever begin for some of us? What spiritual kicks in the ass are required? That kick was solid and painful for me. Not everyone receives such a luxurious gift. Others may receive the gift but not recognize it.

The shedding is a work in progress. The many things that I once coveted in my life are simply irrelevant to me now. Stripping it down to the essentials is likely also a trait I learned late in life from my father, as I observed him shedding work responsibilities, real estate obligations, and many other previously important anchors in his life in order to more effectively care for himself and my mother into their old age.

I’d say that aging has a factor in it as well. When one finds themself with less time ahead than behind—it is easier to shed and focus. The Stoics would remind us to stop counting time—to stop expecting a long, fruitful life. To focus on the NOW that we have. That concept is difficult in our modern culture of relative safety, comfort, boredom, and longevity. We’ve become accustomed to trivializing traumatic events happening around us. We expect that those things we witness happening to others will never happen to us. We expect others to fix it for us.

Can gratitude also be a life philosophy? I believe it can be—enough wise ones have written about it. I am most grateful for following five realities in my life:

The gift of life from God and my family.

The gift of my sobriety.

The gift of my loving bride and best friend.

The gift of the many dogs I’ve been able to rescue and care for.

The gift of supportive and loving friends.

Those gifts alone are motivation enough for me to rise each morning, but gratefully there’s more in this world. There are others to love and help and learn from and interact and share purpose with.

As I reflect and write about this, I realize much of my learning comes from relationships. The mirroring effect of having your own behavior reflected back at you by those you care for and care for you is a powerful mechanism for change and examination. I’ve always forged deep ones with both men and women. My legacy of friendships represents just that.

Learning more about who I am by borrowing bits from them has always worked for me. Being myself was never hard and sometimes that rubbed counter to what others saw in me—or perhaps it rubbed exactly aligned with what others saw in me. I’m less concerned about that now part now.

Many of my romantic relationships were hostage-taking—a sense of winning—of getting something I wanted. That has been one of the most profound changes in my recovery. I now view all of my relationships not by what they can bring me, but rather what I can bring to them.

In thinking about what my Self has been historically, I’ve always thrived in playing roles. As a performer—an actor if you will—filling out a character. I played team captain, teammate, singer, dancer, altar boy, Boy Scout, employee, entrepreneur, business owner, best drinker, best boyfriend, best lover. My motivation was unclear—except in the singular clarity of wanting to try anything and everything from an early age—and the outcomes were that I was able to take away something towards developing my own character.

The things I chose to do I did with gusto. Now I know that part of that was me trying to define who I was. Each part I played gave me more shape. No part filled me entirely. If I had a philosophy for life, I guess it could be defined as “try anything.”

Are life philosophies inherited? Are they read about and learned? Do we believe and behave in a certain way—with certain values—and then find one that we align with and say, “Yeah that’s the one?”

Combine recovery, profound gratitude, and Stoicism, and what do you have? A personal philosophy for me that recognizes the reality that I almost threw away this precious thing called life many times. A clarity that life is temporary. The reality that much of life is outside of our control—and that we must learn to control what we can—our responses.

Stoicism is about controlling our responses and reactions. Ryan Holiday wrote about it just today in his Daily Stoic newsletter. Of course he did.

“The thing you’re about to do is scary. It’s hard to be up there in front of people on a stage. It’s terrifying to step out onto a battlefield or to rush into a dangerous situation.

Of course you’re nervous. It’s normal that you would be. But normal? Normal is not what leads to elite performance.

On the set of Gladiator II, Paul Mescal felt exactly those kind of nerves—he was starring in a $210M dollar movie after all, a sequel to a movie that won five Academy Awards. “You nervous?” Ridley Scott, the director asked him on the first day of shooting. And when he answered in the affirmative, Scott looked at him and said, “Your nerves are no fucking good to me,” and then walked onto set.

Stoicism is a philosophy of nerve control. The first two virtues—courage and discipline—are all about this. We are going to face scary situations in life. Our mind can be our friend in these situations or our worst enemy. We can use it to calm ourselves down, to master our emotions, or we can allow it to stir us up, to drive us crazy, to paralyze us. Anxiety, worry, doubt, imposter syndrome? These things are no good to you. You must push them aside. You must put these impressions up to the test, master them so they don’t master you…so you can do what you need to do.”

Perhaps the definition of my own personal philosophy for living my life arrived late. The phrase Better Late than Never is a direct translation of a Latin proverb. It first appeared as potiusque sero quam nunquam in Titus Levy’s History of Rome. There’s another ancient, long-ago written text again—with a modern application—Stoic in nature and powerful in life.

Below you will find direct links to the essays written by the other men in this series on Personal Philosophy.

Latham Turner’s post from Monday, December 16th:

Building the Plane

A letter to my son

Today’s essay is part of a new series including me, Joshua Doležal, Bowen Dwelle , Michael Mohr, Dee Rambeau , and Lyle McKeany . Past essays were at Get Real, Man, but this series is too much a part of this project to separate it. This week, all of us explore the roots of our personal philosophies…

Read more

a year ago · 19 likes · 12 comments · Latham Turner

Josh Dolezal’s post from Tuesday, December 17th:

The Recovering Academic

How I Became a Scholar - Pt. 2

Today’s essay is part of a new series including me, Latham Turner, Bowen Dwelle, Michael Mohr, Dee Rambeau, and Lyle McKeany. In the past we’ve written about trust, fatherhood, recovery, work, and home. This week, all of us explore the roots of our personal philosophies…

Read more

a year ago · 26 likes · 21 comments · Joshua Doležal

Bowen Dwelle’s post from Wednesday, December 18th:

An Ordinary Disaster

Drapa's Shirt

Today’s essay is part of a sixth series by a group of men writing here on Substack including myself, Latham Turner, Joshua Doležal, Lyle McKeany, Dee Rambeau, and Michael Mohr. You may recall our past series on fatherhood, work, “recovery,” trust, and home. This series is on…

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a year ago · 9 likes · 2 comments · Bowen Dwelle

Michael Mohr’s post from Thursday, December 19th:

Michael Mohr's Sincere American Writing

My Personal Philosophy

~ Today’s essay is part of a series (we’ve been doing these for over a year now) by Latham Turner, Bowen Dwelle, Michael Mohr, Dee Rambeau, and Lyle McKeany and Joshua Doležal. This week, all of us explore the roots of our personal philosophies. Other series’ have covered…

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a year ago · 11 likes · 5 comments · Michael Mohr

Lyle McKeany’s piece on Saturday, Dec 21st:

Just Enough to Get Me in Trouble

It's Always Now

Today’s essay is part of a quarterly series including Latham Turner, Joshua Doležal, Bowen Dwelle, Michael Mohr, Dee Rambeau, and me. In the past, we’ve written about trust, fatherhood, recovery, work, and home. This week, all of us explore the roots of our personal philosophies…

Read more

a year ago · 1 like · 1 comment · Lyle McKeany

In the past year-plus we’ve written about trust, fatherhood, recovery, and work. We continue to explore our lives as men through these collaborations. This week, all of us wrestle with what home means to us.

Like so much in my life my understanding of home has changed. I moved a lot as a kid and explored the topic last year in an essay called; We’re Moving Again.

I became accustomed to leaving a place and going to a new one—homes, cities, states. As a child I had no choice. Long before email and cellphones. There would be no staying in touch. Kicking and screaming at first—not understanding how home could be ripped out from under me just like that. My friends—my teammates—the cool quiet nights of my bedroom listening to crickets, late-night AM radio, and the sound of far-away airplanes.

Are we taking all of our stuff with us?

Where will we live?

I’m not going!!!

Goodbye Kevin, Robert, Danny—I guess I’ll never see you again.

Then accepting the adventure of it—as it was settling into my psyche—growing slowly as I grew up through continual moving.

Hello Ronnie, David, Murray—will you be my new home friends?

As an adult I became the one that made the choice. I did it frequently. I have many childhood friends who live mere houses or blocks or miles from where they grew up and where their parents still live. Clearly their definition of home has a different meaning. For me—home has always represented less about a place—and more about what surrounds me.

As I’ve written about in previous essays—busting a move became an artform in my life. In recovery we call it geographical. I have less-than-fond memories of leaving entire album collections in a buddy’s garage—never to be seen again by me.

I’m not comfortable here anymore. Someplace else must be better. I’m outta here.

And of course it was the same in the new place cuz there I still was.

Last week marked a homecoming for me. This summer is the first time in over 40 years that I’ve moved homes—only temporarily—to eventually return to my home. I use the word home in this particular case to mean where one lives. My wife Ann and I decided we’d had enough of Central Texas summers and had an opportunity this summer to rent a home in the mountains of Northeastern Arizona in a town called Payson. We’ve been there since early June and have returned to our Texas home just last week—two cars, a trailer with my motorcycle—and the three dogs.

We love where we live in our small community of Wimberley, Texas but the summers can be brutal—and the last two were. This summer in Central Texas was the coolest and wettest in nearly fifty years. Of course it was.

Both Ann and I have spent the majority of our adult lives in Western climates—California, Oregon, and Montana for her—Colorado and Arizona for me. A chance to spend a summer in cool mornings and evenings—low humidity—and surrounded by National Forest—was impossible to pass up. An added bonus was 30 rounds of golf on the adjoining club.

Among the many reasons we busted a move this summer was to remember what it felt like to be near public lands—open for recreation and exploration. Having spent so much time in National Forests and BLM lands in the western states—it was a shock to our system when we moved to Texas and found out that there really isn’t any. With the singular exception of Big Bend National Park—which isn’t exactly an easy get to—Texas is privately owned and fenced off. I wrote about this concept in a previous essay Texas and Texans.

Ann and I were seeking the freedom to wander once again—to drive down a barely-marked dirt road in search of a shimmering and shaded green patch with a river running through it. We found multitudes this summer and it was blissful.

Home has so many iterations and connotations—so many contexts.

Home plate, Home team, Home room, Home body, Homeland, Hometown, Homegrown, Home-cookin’, Homeboy, Homemaker.

While I’m homing in on my idea of what home is—here’s a sidebar that I’ve always found weird about home as it relates to sports.

I lived in Colorado for twenty-five years. I’m still a Denver Broncos fan. I haven’t lived in the St. Louis area for almost fifty years. I’m still a St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan. Although I don’t live in these places anymore, I’m still a homer. What’s up with that? Not one of the players or managers or owners that I knew are still around—but I still root passionately for those teams—and get royally pissed when they lose or play poorly. Because at one point they were my home team. Sports fandom has always been weird like that. I get the college or university alumni loyalty—but pro teams?

I digress.

The song Homecoming by Josh Ritter speaks to me. Here’s a link to the song, followed by some of the lyrics.

Homecoming

I feel a change in the weather
I feel a change in me
The days are getting shorter
And the birds begin to leave

Even me, yes, yes, you all
Who has been so long alone
I'm headed home
Headed home

The nights are getting colder now
And the air is getting crisp
Our first taste of the universe
On a night like this

A box of wine, an alibi
And the hunger in her eyes
In the place where the tree of good and evil
Still resides
Still resides

Homecoming
Homecoming, homecoming

Hey now
When the oracle spoke to me
She was like a roadside song (don't go away now)
Do unto others as you would have them do
Even if in turn they do you wrong (hey now)
This town right here's my everything
And though I’d be torn away (don't go away now)
It had my heart, it has my heart
Be still, my heart, my heart will stay (hey now)
My heart will stay, my heart will stay, my heart will stay
Don't go away now

The air is getting colder now
The nights are getting crisp
I first tasted the universe
On a night like this
An alibi, a box of wine
And the hunger in your eyes
In the place where the tree of good and evil
Still resides

Homecoming
Homecoming, homecoming.

There have been many times in my life I’ve not owned a home. Like others, I’ve gone through various phases of renting, crashing, or visiting. For a long while in my career hotels became a comfort—it felt right to stay on the move and always have someone cleaning up after you. I traveled like that for nearly two decades—forty-eight of fifty-two weekends—somewhere besides where I owned a home.

In younger years I preferred the excitement of the big city—living in a loft mere stumbling distance from my favorite watering holes. I suppose this is not uncommon. Now I prefer quieter environs—a country setting where the conveniences of life are a short car ride away—but with some ground in between me and other folks. I suppose this also is not uncommon.

Is it the place? Is it the people in the place? Or is it the experience? I can feel at home nearly anywhere.

I’ve built houses for others on spec. I’ve remodeled houses that I lived in while fixing them up for someone else to live in. Were those homes? They were for someone—not for me.

As a grown-ass man I’ve owned a variety of homes. Suburban bungalows—ski houses—downtown lofts—townhomes—historic homes—and acreage. Each of them felt like home at the time. After all—I was living there—as were my dog or dogs at the time.

The home I co-own—note the operative word co—now with my bride of nine months feels more like home than any other has. Is it because we’ve built a life together there? I think so yes. We made a decision three years ago to cohabitate—and bought a home together. We both knew that at our age—and with our experience—this was the biggest step. Last October I proposed. In December we were married.

In the past I always looked forward to trips—whether vacations or business trips—and also looked forward to coming home. Now when I travel solo—which is rare—I miss home. Am I missing the brick and mortar? No. I’m missing the feeling of being home with my love. Where she is and where they (the dogs) are is my home. When I’m away I’d prefer to be there.

Another lyric that has always struck me is from Home by Simon and Garfunkel:

Homeward-bound
I wish I was homeward-bound
Home where my thoughts are skipping
Home where my music's playing
Home where my love lies waiting silently for me

On this summer journey my love(s) were with me. Our sense of Home traveled—from one house to another—and we made the temporary house home. But despite all the goodness that we experienced this summer, when we arrived home we knew beyond all doubt. We were home.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this piece—poke that heart button—or leave a comment below with your thoughts on home. All six of us would appreciate hearing from you.

What is trust?

Is trust transactional or performative? How many good deeds do others need to perform in order to be granted your trust? How many must you in order to gain theirs?

How many good days in a row qualifies someone to be trustworthy? In the absence of a formula that works for everyone—anyone—let’s examine trust.

I honestly don’t know how to define—or get to—a place of trust other than through a process. Therefore—I trust the process.

I’ve had lovers, friends, and family betray a trust. I guess that’s what it was cuz it surprised me each time. I’ve had bosses, colleagues, companies, and institutions betray a trust. I guess that’s what it was cuz it shocked me each time.

I am no longer shocked. Trust is malleable. People lie. They betray. They fuck up. I do too. Are those people gone forever from our lives? Do we hold ourselves to the same standard?

I’ve had instances where I betrayed a trust. I’m pretty sure that’s what it was cuz the other person told me so.

I trusted you!

Is there a contract for trust? No—but there is an unsaid agreement between two people who care about each other to treat each other fairly—evenly—honestly—in a trustworthy manner.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines trust as:

1a: assured reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something

b: one in which confidence is placed

2a: dependence on something future or contingent—Hope

What act breaks that contract? Is there a defining emotion that someone feels that makes them feel their trust has been broken? Or is it different for each of us—per our boundaries. Does one act of dishonesty break a trust? On whose scale? A moral one? A societal one? A religious one?

What if a loving couple has an open marriage that allows for sexual experimentation with others? Do they still trust each other—albeit with different parameters than another couple?

What about a business partnership where one partner regularly cheats the rules of accounting—and the other partners allow for it? Where does the line of trust live—do the other partners trust everything else that partner does with only the one exception of handling the books?

What if your teenager has wrecked three of your cars before the age of eighteen? Can you ever trust them to drive again? What if they drive for one year with no accidents—does that qualify them for trust behind the wheel?

In my simple mind—I’m certainly not simple-minded but I do appreciate being able to break complex things down into simple terms—real trust involves a process. That process builds something along the way—like an assembly line builds a car.

As a person in recovery—I’ve learned to trust a process. That process moves slowly—and you never really reach a finish line. You just move forward with small actions and things are different and better. You begin to trust yourself again to make good decisions. You begin to trust others through a different lens—a more examined set of metrics.

What if a loved one has demonstrated years—decades—of being unable to control their drinking and drugging? Can you ever trust them to operate in the world again as a healthy person? Can that person trust themself?

What if an obese loved one continues to behave against doctor’s orders—and eat, drink, and smoke to their heart’s content? Can you ever trust them to take care of their vital health again? Do you trust that they have your short or long-term interests at heart?

As we saw above—the dictionary identifies that at least one definition of trust can be Hope. A positive process of growth builds hope in the short-term and trust in the long-term.

Is cultural and institutional trust so far broken in this day and age that we can never get it back? These days we hear trust the science or trust the legal system or trust the democratic process. Trust me not him. Trust us not them.

Why should we? The Public Trust—as if.

The evidence is that they will easily lie to us to achieve their own ends. I don’t even know these people so why would I trust them? And because they’ve placed themselves in the public eye—the public trust if you will—we’re able to scrutinize their every statement and action. And they’re not trustworthy.

How many elections or pandemic responses do we give them to win it back? How much of the national debt is too much? How many wars or illegal immigrants or scandals do we allow them? If any of them actually began to build a real process of change—how much time would we allow them before we trust any of them again?

Let’s move away from trust for a moment and talk about process.

Process is defined by Merriam Webster as:

1a: Progress. Advance. In the process of time.

b: Something going on. Proceeding.

2a: A natural phenomenon marked by gradual changes that lead toward a particular result. the process of growth

b: A continuing natural or biological activity or function. such life processes as breathing

c: a series of actions or operations conducing to an end

There are more definitions related to the legal system such as serving a process, etc. but let’s ignore those for this discussion.

Trust the process.

Rick Rubin on the creative process:

Living life as an artist is a practice. You are either engaging in the practice or you’re not. It makes no sense to say you’re not good at it. It’s like saying, “I’m not good at being a monk.” You are either living as a monk or you’re not. We tend to think of the artist’s work as the output. The real work of the artist is a way of being in the world.

From the Big Book of AA on process:

RARELY HAVE we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path. Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves…If you have decided you want what we have and are willing to go to any length to get it-then you are ready to take certain steps.

Exercise is a process. From Mayo Clinic:

Exercise controls weight. Exercise combats health conditions and diseases. Exercise improves mood. Exercise boosts energy. Exercise promotes better sleep. Exercise puts the spark back into your sex life. Exercise can be fun — and social!

Losing weight is a process. Eat less and burn more. With the exception of medical intervention—it’s the only way.

Saving money is a process. Put a little away over a long period of time.

Relationships are a process. Relationships involve finding trust—rebuilding it if it shatters—and maintaining it.

Parenting is a process. Kids grow up over years and decades—it takes time and it’s a process.

Learning is a process. We learn and grow until we die.

Building trust is a process. You don’t gift it to someone immediately—it takes time and it’s a process.

I trust that shortcuts do not work.

I trust that you’re gonna be and do what you’re gonna be and do.

I trust that if I follow the path the chance of everything working out are good.

I trust that if things don’t work out well—that I’ll be OK with that—that I have the tools and the process to deal with it.

I trust my instincts to sense and assess energy—good and bad. Like a dog. Energy is everything. Can you be a creepy person with negative energy and ever become a trusted person in my life? Unlikely. I suppose it’s possible but the evidence in my life indicates otherwise. How would I get to trust someone that I don’t allow myself to get to know due to their energy? I wouldn’t. I won’t.

Most importantly—I trust in a higher power in the Universe that I call God. I trust that there is a natural order to the Universe that I have no influence over.

My friends this week in their essays have written about instinct—gut instinct. They’ve written about once having it—losing it for a time due to a variety of reasons—then building it back. Through a process. I happen to trust the process.

I believe that whatever words you use to describe it—gut instinct—faith—belief—there is a power within us that we need to trust. I personally don’t struggle trying to figure out where that power comes from. Humans—certainly writers and philosophers—since the beginning of recorded time have attempted to understand it better.

The process of putting one thought and one foot and one action after another in a building process until the foundation is strong once again. It’s about learning to trust the process until the outcome is one you can once again trust.

It is truly miraculous how a person can be so shattered—so betrayed—so broken by their own actions or that of others close to them—and yet crawl and fight their way back to believing in themselves and others again.

There are many things and people I simply don’t trust. I trust myself enough to know what I do—and don’t—put my faith and trust in.

But I do emphatically trust the process. I’ve seen it work—in others—and in myself.

Please enjoy. Here’s a link to each of the other fine gentlemen tackling this beast this week. and

A quick preface to this essay. I had written this essay weeks ago with the knowledge that I’d be on my honeymoon this week in Italy and then on to Provence and then the Costa Brava. I felt a strong compulsion to add this preface today.

Yesterday we visited the Umbrian town of Assisi—the birthplace and home of Francis of Assisi. Standing in the Basilica named for him—particularly in this Lenten season—I was struck by how powerfully representative St. Francis is to this particular topic—work and money. St. Francis was the founder of the Franciscan order of Catholicism and was canonized as a saint by Pope Gregory IX two years after his death in 1226. In direct contrast to his wealthy upbringing, Francis chose a life of poverty, chastity, and obedience which enraged his parents—a wealthy Italian silk merchant father —and a noblewoman mother from Provence.

Like every human being—before and since—Francis carried all he had known as a youth with him for the duration of his life. How he chose to embrace or deny it was what made him. It does for all of us.

The written record of what Saint Francis beleived about the pursuit and glorification of money over 800 years ago has been chronicled and analyzed extensively. He lived his saintly adult life abhorring money as worth little more than dung. He never handled it physically. He was and is still today a powerful representation of the act of rebelling against a life ruled by money.

Ann and I stood awed at the magnificence of witnessing the powerful historical legacy that was before us.

Jackson Browne is a lyrical poet that I discovered young. What stands out in memory is a concert at the Mississippi River Festival when I was nineteen—the summer after my sophomore year at SMU. My friend Gregg and I took dates to see Jackson Browne across the river from St. Louis in Edwardsville, Illinois—my date was a first date—a setup with a friend of Gregg’s date Carrie. Her name was Cindy—I fell madly in love that night—starting a three-year romance. The ending of that youthful affair affected me in a profound way which I’ve written about previously. One of my favorite JB songs ties love and money together with a tidy sailor’s knot.

The Pretender was released May of ‘77—we heard it live that night a month later.

I'm gonna find myself a girl
Who can show me what laughter means
And we'll fill in the missing colors
In each other's paint-by-number dreams

And then we'll put our dark glasses on
And we'll make love until our strength is gone
And when the morning light comes streaming in
We'll get up and do it again
Get it up again

I'm gonna be a happy idiot
And struggle for the legal tender
Where the ads take aim and lay their claim
To the heart and the soul of the spender
And believe in whatever may lie
In those things that money can buy
Where true love could have been a contender

I don’t fully understand what that song—and those lyrics—set down deep inside me that night. It resonated then as it does now in a way much like the cynical lyrics of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker always have. The profound absurdity of modern life contrasted with our willingness to continue to play the game.

I needed both validation and approval in both love and work—and resented it. I didn’t understand that yet—I wouldn’t until much later in my life.

The construction project of our belief systems begins in childhood. We may have many teachers and fellow workers along the way but the foundation is built in our family of origin—the general contractors pouring the beams are our parents and siblings. The footers and columns that get sunk so deep include our beliefs around work and money.

Let me first say this: I know that am fortunate. Born to young white—intelligent and educated—loving parents. As children of the Depression—they started with nothing and made their own way in the world. Striving and increasingly successful—with three young boys—they had continual anxiety about money. When children feel free-floating anxiety they process it in different ways—but one way they always do it is to build up a system of defenses. We don’t know we’re doing it consciously—but we do it nonetheless.

I was not one of the lucky few who knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up. Blessed with talent and options—I had no freakin’ idea. Like many young boys—at various times I wanted to be a fighter pilot or a professional athlete. I wanted to be a musician and performer. For a time I imagined myself a stage or film actor. I did bits of all of them in my youth but did not burn hot enough for any of these life paths to actually forge a profession. I was too distracted by choice and too afraid of failure. Looking back at my life now—with some perspective—one thing I’m sure of is that I didn’t want money to be my ruler. I saw my father work his tail off until it nearly killed him at 60. What that meant for me as a child was constant turmoil—moving a lot—and not understanding why he was gone all the time. The defense story I built early on was that I didn’t want the same for my adult life. I was taught by my parents that money was scarce and important. Uncertain as to how to blend my fears and ambitions—I plowed ahead—eventually becoming that happy idiot struggling for the legal tender for decades.

In my younger days of fearless, reckless, and shameless I didn’t think much about the future. I lived for the now—for the thrill—for the experience. As a classic example of God’s sense of ironic humor—here I sit at 66 years of age—healthier than I’ve ever been—newly married with a dog family and a community of people that I love and who love me. I can’t not think about the future—yet much of my personal work revolves around staying in the Now. Touche God—you only give me what I can handle—when I can actually handle it.

Numerous other rockers have parodied the working life. The Huey Lewis and the News hit Workin’ for a Livin’. Mark Knopfler and Dire Straits with that ain’t working—that’s the way you do it.

All fun to sing to in the car as we’re on our way to—oh yeah—work.

Those of us born in the 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s in this country generally—and I do mean generally—had the opportunity to truly play as kids. Outside. Beginning in the 90s with the Internet and since then with gaming, smartphones and social media—it’s different. One of my favorite authors and researchers Jon Haight writes extensively about this phenomenon and the issues it has rendered.

These are considered luxuries in many parts of the world where children are born into indentured servitude by necessity—as was the case in this country for far too long. Now with child labor laws children generally can’t be forced to work.

Work—for most of us—at least once we’re older and have perhaps more freedom to choose how we spend our time—is defined as performing some task or function for monetary compensation. Sometimes childhood family chores count if you’re paid an allowance. Personally, my work-for-pay history includes a wide variety of activities starting in my teenage years. Lawn-cutting business. Window washing. Moving furniture for a moving company. Dishwasher. I spent a summer pulling 5-20 gallon propane tanks out of a furnace into a cold water bath—for ten hours a night. I was a waiter. Retail sporting goods. Fitness instructor. Bartender. All these jobs were performed to have some running-around money—to meet girls—sometimes to pay rent—or to have a car—but always for running around money. And I ran around.

Then at some point after college I began the natural process of considering a career rather than just an hourly wage. What separates the two things? Being on our own I suppose. For some that begins sooner than for others. I was fortunate to have my university education paid for—so getting serious about adulthood was delayed a bit longer.

Ahh money. Let the measuring begin. What we do for a living begins to define us in different ways—for ourselves—and in the eyes of others. More so I think for men of my generation than for women.

What we do for work defines us—or does it?

Imagine George Clooney knocking on your door to sell you insurance.

Or Danny DeVito as your hairdresser.

Or Johnny Depp calling you to sell pens.

All actual jobs held by these now famous men—to make a living.

Money Habits

For a person like me who has struggled with addiction—money habits are just symptoms like my drinking was. I can never have enough to feel safe—and can never spend enough to be satisfied.

I can’t write this essay with sharing some of my habits around money. For a long time I judged myself for it. My attitude seemed to work fine for me but was so wildly different than everyone around me. That created discomfort for a long time. I resisted being ruled by money—but was now having some financial success. Conflict.

I’m 66 and I haven’t balanced a checkbook since I was 25.

I’ve been paid a lot—I’ve been paid a little.

I’ve had seven figures in my checking account—I’ve been overdrawn.

I once started a SaaS company and sold it ten years later for many millions of dollars. I owned just under half of it—my business partner the other half. Half of the total sale amount was paid in cash upon sale and the other half was set to be paid upon reaching unreachable incentives over three years—which were never met. Half of my half-share of the half paid up front was taken by federal and state taxes. What was left over was still a decent amount of money when you see it on paper. But not enough to retire. I could buy a nicer car. I could have nicer things. I could invest a little and invest in myself—pay off my house—all of which I did. My partner and I took good care of our other small share partner—and our employees. At the end of the day it felt good—but it didn’t make us rich. It was 2009—we felt extremely grateful to sell our company in a business environment when many other businesses were pulling back or shutting down.

What the experience did do is make us rich with a sense of accomplishment. Wealthy in spirit from having started something and seen it through to the finish. from having given 30 employees meaningful work for a decade and beyond. A sense of pride in having created something that has lasting value—several thousand companies from airlines to utilities to packaged goods companies to banks to retail still use our software product to this day.

So was it the work or was it the money that made us wealthy? Clearly the former.

But we measure our success in this culture by the number—by the $$$. The bank account. It was never the reason I started the company. It was never the reason my business partner and I worked day and night to get to the finish line. We didn’t necessarily anticipate the many stresses of small business ownership. I didn’t anticipate putting myself and everyone else through the acceleration of my alcoholism.

Now in my recovery I spend time examining my relationship with money—just as I do every other relationship with things. Many people go on throughout their lives thinking this is just the way I am—or the way life is—and never unpack the fact that our some of our most deeply-set behaviors are defense systems from our family of origin. I never understood that my reckless behavior around money came from the defense system I built against the anxiety I felt as a child. Not until I began to unpack it in recovery. My Dad tried repeatedly to teach me about money and build some responsibility around it. Irony being the working word here—I started my initial business career managing money. Everyone’s except my own. Happy idiot indeed.

I spend pretty much everything I make. Always have. I’ve spent, donated, given away and pissed away a lot of money. When I’ve needed to make money—I’ve thus far in my life been able to pull a rabbit out of the proverbial hat.

I’ve taken money that didn’t belong to me. I’ve been given money by others. I’ve given money to others that I didn’t really have to give. I’ve been swindled out of money. I’ve lost money in spontaneous and unwise investments—5 acres in Costa Rica that you can’t get to except on foot or on horseback anyone? I’ll make you a good deal. Probably not a good idea to buy property in a foreign country sight-unseen—or do it while hammered.

Money has never motivated me for its own sake. Honestly. I like it as much as the next person. But making choices in my life—or my career—strictly for the paycheck has never appealed to me.

The Emotional Toll

They say money can’t buy happiness. It’s true that some of the most emotionally immature, mean, and dysfunctional people I’ve ever met in my life have had the most money. I’ve met plenty of them through the decades. I’m sure it had an impact on my attitude about money. If money turns a person into that I don’t want any.

It’s hard to talk about money honestly. I feel very vulnerable writing those sentences above. I’m not sure why—I just do. It’s the truth. It shouldn’t be that hard. But it is.

Now at 66 I don’t make much money. A little consulting gig now and then when I feel like it which is mostly never these days. I spend 20-30 hours a week volunteering. In many respects the work I do now as a volunteer means more to me than the paid work I’ve done for decades. Helping those that still suffer with addiction—and building community where I live.

I own all my assets outright and enjoy very low living expenses. I make a little bit from my assets working for me.

One credit card for emergencies—everything else is paid for in cash or with a direct debit card. I owe nothing. To no one. Truth be told I owe a lot of people for helping me find the clean and sober path in life for the last 14+ years—but I don’t owe them any money. Thank you!

There was never going to be a pension. I had a 401K briefly at two points—but those funds have long since been plowed into property. I don’t think I’ll run out of money but life is uncertain. Hasn’t our world shown us that no one can completely shield themselves from the uncertainty of the world?

I told my father exactly that back in 2009. Dad you know I’ve lived well and had fun. If I got hit by a bus tomorrow I have no regrets. The next conversation he had was about scheduling my intervention.

My parents have been financially successful so at some point—God willing and the crick don’t rise—my brothers and I stand to inherit a few dollars—but I’ve never thought much about that. My parents are a blessing—alive and relatively healthy in their late eighties. My Dad has already outlived the men he comes from by 30+ years. My Mother’s side—of strong Irish stock—live into their nineties and beyond. When I was younger I’d always thought they’d outlive me—and they still may—so I’ve never thought much about what might be left over for me.

I have a good friend that I ride motorcycles with. He nets over 10K a month from two lifetime pensions—20 years in the Marine Corps and 20 years teaching. Good for him. I seriously have no idea what that feels like. Financial planners and smart investors can map a route for anyone to follow with proper saving and controlled spending. Good for them—that was never gonna be my path. I’m still standing.

Currency is a utility that pays for our needs and our desires. Financial wealth is equal parts an aspiration—a badge—and a curse. If you’re able to set aside the feelings of fear, inadequacy, FOMO, and whatever other negative emotions that arise around money in our culture—then you are tougher than most. Very few of us are willing to take the extreme pledge of poverty, chastity, and obedience like the Franciscans. It’s hard to operate in the modern world without playing the money game. We modern humans may not beat—enslave—or imprison our poor like they did in the 1200s—but we still caste others out for having no money—just as they did St. Francis of Assisi eight centuries ago.

In early AA I heard from oldtimers quite a bit that it would be pink or green that would trip me up—sex or money. I work hard these days to want what I have rather than having what I want. Maybe I’ll be alright.

Out into the cool of the evening
Strolls the pretender
He knows that all his hopes and dreams
Begin and end there

Hello friends. Today’s essay is part of a new series on recovery that includes , , and . Each of us will wrestle this week with what recovery means to us and how our life experiences shape that definition.

The word Recovery has been closely associated in the culture with addiction from alcohol and drugs. There are many outstanding writers passionately and honestly writing on Recovery within the Substack universe. One such writer, has assembled an amazing array of recovery writing in her Sober Soulful collection. Check it out if you’re so inclined. Short-term recovery—long-term—and all spaces in between are reflected with experience and honesty in the essays among the growing collection.

As you will read in this essay—and hopefully read in the other five essays as part of this week’s collaboration—everyone’s definition is a wee bit different—as is everyone’s journey. And that’s magic. As my Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu friends (I see you Latham!) might say, Let’s Roll!

Every single human being is either in Relapse or in Recovery—from something.

Family of Origin. Attachment. Abandonment. Trauma. Neglect. Violence or abuse. Relationships. Anger. Hatred. Habits. Behaviors. Addiction. If you’re in relapse you’re stuck in it or moving closer to the thing that you’re dealing with. If you’re in recovery you’re working on it and moving farther away from it.

I don’t really know what recovery actually is. I only know that without it I’d be in prison, sleeping on the streets, or in the ground. There is little chance that I will ever reach for a bottle or a line as a coping mechanism again. That is miraculous. Describing the original 100 people who authored the first edition of the Big Book of AA in 1939, “nearly all have recovered. They have solved the drink problem.” BTW that line is from the very beginning of the book. There’s a whole bunch of other amazing stuff that follows—after the drink problem is solved. Very little of it has to do with alcohol.

Here’s the thing that normies don’t understand about alcoholism: It’s not about the booze.

What I am in recovery from for the rest of my life is my old way of thinking. The way of thinking that served me for a long time. It wasn’t my thinking that led directly to the nefarious behaviors—I can blame that on the booze. Thinking and feeling was what led me to need the booze in the first place. Then the booze and its aftermath would create behaviors—which led to the need for more booze to relieve the guilt and shame of the behavior—which led to more stinkin’ thinkin’ and around and around I’d go. The vicious circle of addictive behavior.

“I cannot manage this (life) without that. (coping mechanism).”

The irony was that my life was unmanageable in so many ways, but I truly couldn’t imagine coping without alcohol. I actually believed that it made me able to manage better.

But to reiterate—it’s not about the booze. At some point I began living a double life. There was the face that I presented to the outside world—in control, strong, fearless, and accomplished. Some of that story was true. I did actually feel that way when I was playing that role. The other face was the one I saw when I was alone—the one in the mirror. Man-oh-man did I avoid that mirror. Have you ever tried to shave or brush your teeth or check for boogers without looking yourself in the eye? It’s doable. Was that feeling there before I discovered booze and drugs? Or was the feeling created by my dependence upon them? I was 6 months clean and sober before I could actually look myself in the eyes and like what I saw there. That’s recovery.

I still have coping mechanisms—they’re just healthier. Exercise, routine, prayer, meditation, staying connected, routine, writing. My recovery as a man, as a husband-to-be, as a son, as a brother, as a friend, and as a productive human being is ongoing and progressive. The other men is my writing group have said, “isn’t that just life?” Well yes. It is. But many of us go in the wrong direction for a while before altering our course. So, call Recovery a course correction if that makes you feel less resistance.

People can recover from alcohol and drugs. I see it every day. The odds aren’t good, but if we adopt a simple program of honesty and vigilance it can happen. The world is a better place when we do. The most creative, sensitive, interesting, and loving people are those I’ve met in recovery.

Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path. Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves.

Every single human being has stuff they need to recover from. Many don’t do it. Because it’s hard as fuck to look inward. The fear and uncertainty of change keeps many people from imagining a different way of living without pain. Pain is relative to the individual. People stay in bad relationships, bad habits, bad jobs and career paths—in a constant state of anxiety and fear and isolation. I did for a long time.

Some people—like me—have incredibly high tolerances for both physical and emotional pain. I’d pull up the tried and true defenses, stiffen up the armor of denial, and carry on. For us, it takes a whole heaping pile of painful shit to alert us to trouble. Others are less (or more?) fortunate. They recognize and feel pain quite easily. There is a silver lining for those people when it comes to recovering from that discomfort. They recognize it quickly and either medicate it (relapse), or address it with awareness, communication, and work (recovery). For well-armored souls like me—the identification was slow, the progression of the pain and consequences was insidious, and the work now is unrelenting.

I was fortunate—and I know that sounds weird to those of you that haven’t experienced recovery from drugs or alcohol—that I went through what I did. I am profoundly grateful that I stumbled down the dark path that I did, that it didn’t kill me, and that I now know what I do. I have not always felt that gratitude about my broken road. I do now—and that is a testament to the fact that recovery doesn’t happen when you get first clean and sober. Getting sober is simply paying the cover charge. Am I continually recovering from family of origin stuff? Attachment issues? Abandonment issues? Trauma? Yup. Getting clean and sober made me interested in, and curious of, dealing with the underlying issues that led me to seek solace in mind-altering substances.

“Houston we have a problem.”

Alcoholism and Addiction are progressive in nature. The data are clear. The evidence is overwhelming. It follows a predictable course—it gets worse over time. I’ve heard some people describe the last days of their using as if they were a marathoner at the end of 26 miles, or an Iron Man triathlete crawling across the finish line just as their spirit and blood sugar are completely depleted. For me it was more like a long movie car chase—yes I was exhausted, but I was nevertheless speeding through the urban landscape oblivious to my pursuers or the damage I’d done—and was finally caught in a cul-de-sac—handcuffed and taken away. My resistance was gone but my anger was intact all the way to the lockup and beyond.

Here’s the clinical take on it.

The Progressive Stages of Alcoholic Behavior (Courtesy of John Lee at ChooseHelp.com):

The Early Stages

—You start sneaking drinks or minimizing how much you actually consume

—You start to feel preoccupied with drinking

—You start gulping drinks - especially that first one

—You stop talking about your drinking with most people (drinking buddies excepted)

—You start having blackouts

—Your tolerance goes up

—You start drinking before and after social drinking occasions

—You start drinking as a way to relieve uncomfortable emotions/stress, etc.

—You start feeling uncomfortable in social situations that don’t allow alcohol

—You start to feel a loss of control over how much you drink

—You start to lie to others about how much you drink

• Your habit of drinking as a way to relieve negative emotions get more common

The Middle Stages

—You start hiding your alcohol

—you worry about always having a good supply

—You start to NEED a first drink of the day

—You try to force yourself into periods of abstinence (you go on the wagon)

—Other people start commenting on how much you’re drinking

—You start becoming occasionally aggressive or grandiose

—You start to feel real guilt about your drinking

—Eating becomes less important than drinking

—Personal relationships become less important than drinking

—You start to develop unreasonable feelings of resentment

—You start thinking of getting away, or moving locations, as way to stop drinking

—Your sex drive diminishes

—Your drinking leads to your quitting or losing your job

—You start feeling overly jealous

—You get into a habit of solo drinking

—You get morning shakes or tremors

—You start drinking early in the morning

—Your guilt has blossomed into constant remorse

—You have multi-day drinking binges

—Your thinking becomes scattered and impaired

—You start drinking with people you wouldn’t have associated with earlier in your life

The Late Stages

—Your alcohol tolerance goes down

—You start experiencing vague fear that is not attached to any outside definable threat

—You are no longer able to work or hold down a job

—Your physical condition/health deteriorates

—You lose your sense of morality - start doing things you wouldn’t have considered previously

—You are hospitalized for your drinking

—Your remorse becomes a constant feeling

—You can no longer count on any family or friends to help you

With just a couple of exceptions, I have experienced every single behavior and symptom on that list above. I lied, cheated, stole, hurt people, and did real damage. But all of those things turned inward on myself is where the real damage was done. Amends can be made. People will forgive you. Sentences can be served. Stuff can be fixed with time. Forgiving ourselves is always way harder. On each sobriety chip there is a saying across the top: “to thine own self be true.”

As Donald Fagen sings in “Any Major Dude,” “I can tell you all I know, the where to go, the what to do. You can try to run but you can't hide from what's inside of you.”

Modern political culture has appropriated the word “Progressive” to represent a type of left-leaning belief system. For our purposes of discussing the progressive nature of addiction and recovery, let’s stick with the simple definition that it moves forward—sometimes as a direct result of our own actions—and sometimes completely disconnected from our actions. We’ve established the progressive nature of addiction and substance use. Recovery works the same way “sometimes quickly sometimes slowly.” The 9th Step Promise of AA.

Think of it like hiking a beautiful mountain trail in a National or State Park. You pay your daily fee to get in—that’s the detox and getting sober part. Once you’re geared up you begin your climb. It feels good—you’re breathing well and striding carefully—working towards that first wind. Once you get your second wind—the chemical dependency is slipping away and you’re brighter—more alert with a heightened sense of things to come. You start to lengthen your stride but are still carefully picking through the roots and puddles along the way. It’s slow going but you keep putting one boot in front of the other. (see trudging above). You might stub your toe on a rock—cursing aloud. The trail gets steeper—your progress slows. Here comes a switchback and a clearing. The view is magnificent. You pause and take it in. This is where a lot of people in early sobriety stop. They’re taking in the amazing view and making pronouncements about how magical, yet painful, this climb is. Many plateau there. Life is better. It’s all good. Digging up a bunch of old shit just isn’t for me. They don’t yet know how magnificent the view is a couple thousand vertical feet up the trail.

Once you’ve surrendered and decided you want to be sober, it doesn’t take much time to start feeling better, and to begin to think that you know what sobriety is. I went through it. Everyone who makes it that far does. The pink cloud. Look at me! I’m sober! It takes a lot more willingness, courage, and time for your thinking to truly change. Not everyone keeps going until the real magic happens. That my friends—is recovery. It’s about the brain. It’s not about the booze. Is there an echo in here?

Many addiction experts will tell that if a person found the bottle or the drug of choice at the age of 13 or 14—which many do—that their emotional maturity stalls out at that age until they get clean and sober and begin working a program of recovery. I’m not sure I buy that completely. What I do know is that I was clearly stunted in those ways. I also know that the benefits of recovery are compounding. It’s not a straight line.

I wrote about this a bit in my June essay about Mindfulness.

Recovery is self-examination. Self-awareness. Initially getting sober involves cleaning up your own side of the street, and then once you’ve cleaned up your messes—keeping it clean. Go to meetings. Make your damn bed. Take a shower. Go for a walk or a run. Take up a new hobby. Show up on time. Be a dependable colleague at work. Do what you say you’re going to do. Call a friend. Apologize when you say something stupid. Try to think of yourself less often. Help others. Get a sponsor. Have them take you through the steps. And don’t pick up a drink! These are all the requirements of early sobriety. The basics.

When you’ve built a foundation out of the simple stuff, the real work opens up to you. For me it was in years 7-10 that my thinking began to change dramatically. It became liminal. I was learning to make a connection from the old way of thinking to the new way. Because there was now a bridge, I could much better understand why and how I thought and behaved the way I once did. In early sobriety there is no bridge—there is just too much shame. You’re simply throwing the baby (twins?) out with the bathwater. You quite literally have to abandon your old ways and find new ways. With some recovery maturity you can traverse mentally back and forth over the bridge between the two—honoring and accepting more of your old behavior rather than regretting and condemning it constantly. This doesn’t mean I have to like it. It just means that I can understand it. You can begin to see cause and effect. That’s where the thinking can change. That’s where the real healing can begin.

All I can really share is my experience of how it was, the strength of how it is now, and my hope for the future. You have to find out for yourself. At the end of the day, I don’t really know what recovery is. All I know is what I’ve discovered. The mystery and the magic are in the finding out. I believe in God, and I believe in miracles. How it works is something I don’t understand.

Ann reads—among a million other spiritual things each day—a daily email called The Daily OM. She knew that I was struggling with writing about what recovery is. Which is interesting cuz I write about recovery all the time—but describing what it is has been somehow different. She shared today’s email called “Peeling away the Layers.”

Like a tree, our growth depends upon our ability to soften, loosen, and shed defenses we no longer need.

Trees grow up through their branches and down through their roots into the earth. They also grow wider with each passing year. As they do, they shed the bark that served to protect them but now is no longer big enough to contain them. In the same way, we create boundaries and develop defenses to protect ourselves and then, at a certain point, we outgrow them. If we don’t allow ourselves to shed our protective layer, we can’t expand to our full potential.

Trees need their protective bark to enable the delicate process of growth and renewal to unfold without threat. Likewise, we need our boundaries and defenses so that the more vulnerable parts of ourselves can safely heal and unfold. But our growth also depends upon our ability to soften, loosen, and shed boundaries and defenses we no longer need. It is often the case in life that structures we put in place to help us grow eventually become constricting.

Unlike a tree, we must consciously decide when it’s time to shed our bark and expand our boundaries, so we can move into our next ring of growth. Many spiritual teachers have suggested that our egos don’t disappear so much as they become large enough to hold more than just our small sense of self — the boundary of self widens to contain people and beings other than just “me.” Each time we shed a layer of defensiveness or ease up on a boundary that we no longer need, we metaphorically become bigger people. With this in mind, it is important that we take time to question our boundaries and defenses. While it is essential to set and honor the protective barriers we have put in place, it is equally important that we soften and release them when the time comes. In doing so, we create the space for our next phase of growth.

I like that. The key phrases for me are “consciously decide” and “take time to question.” That’s recovery.

I’ll close with this. Clearly, we are an overstressed, over-triggered, overreactive, disconnected, and over-medicated society. The evidence is all around us. How many spiritually fit people do you know? We can’t think our way out of this. Thinking is done in the head. The pain people are suffering resides in the body and the soul. Unless we figure out how to connect mind, body, and spirit we will continue to be a culture of hurt and painful heads walking around in circles.

I’m a 65-year-old lifelong bachelor and I’m getting married tomorrow to my heart and soul’s equal. We will lock arms and trudge together down the road of happy destiny—deep in the mystery. That’s recovery.

As you may or may not have seen, this last week a group of six men have written essays on Fatherhood. My contribution, here today, is the 6th in the series. I hope you’ll read and follow these terrific men and writers—linked below—on your own. Not all of us are fathers ourselves, but each of us have been deeply and profoundly challenged by the questions around, and the impact of, fatherhood. We decided as a group to choose this first theme to write about separately and in harmony. God willing and the creek don’t rise, there will be more topics to dig into together—as men.

Enjoy. If you like what you read, please consider subscribing, commenting with your own reflections, and of course, sharing. These men are the 6 essay writers undertaking this topic.

You may read each of the essays individually by following this link to our fearless leader Bowen Dwelle’s cumulative introductory post.

An Ordinary Disaster

Six Men Writing about Fatherhood

I’m excited to announce that this week brings something new: a series of pieces by six men writing on Substack that has been meeting as a group for the past few months. This group came together out of initial conversations between myself and Michael Mohr…

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3 years ago · 22 likes · 9 comments · Bowen Dwelle, Lyle McKeany, Michael Mohr, Latham Turner, Dee Rambeau, and Joshua Doležal

Now my essay on fatherhood, entitled “Fatherhoodlessness”

What do I know about it? A lot. What do I know about doing it? Nothing. Indulge me.

I always thought I’d father a bunch of kids. Always wanted to. I grew up imagining myself having kids.

The concept of an early marriage to my college sweetheart with a bunch of kids running around the yard after their teacher Mom and coach Dad came within reach of my grasp in my final two years at SMU. We’d been together for a couple of years and were madly in love. She went to an 8-week Christian camp the summer after my senior year/her junior. Letter correspondence that summer didn’t indicate anything changing, but when I picked her up for the 9-hour drive home at the end of camp, my world fell apart.

“I’m in love with Jesus Christ and I can’t be in love with you at the same time.” This was in about hour number four—so halfway home. We’re two feet from one another in the car. Nowhere to go. Must listen. Can’t run. I’m driving. And my insides are melting as she explains her feelings to me. “Tell me what you’re feeling. Say something,” she says.

Screw you God. Screw you Jesus. How about that? How ‘bout fuck you and that stupid camp and all those ideas they put in your head. I didn’t verbalize any of those feelings. Instead, I said quietly, “I love you. I love Jesus too. I don’t see any conflict with that. I think you’re confusing your feelings, and this will all be fine with time.” Yeah—when I get you back home and naked in bed and away from those God squad nut cases you’ve been with all summer.

What’s the connection between this story of my young broken heart and an essay on Fatherhood? Simple. This first great love was as close as I ever got. A great love spurned and burned evolved into a great bitterness. I was a bachelor—and a budding alcoholic—on a mission to consume love and attention while investing a minimum of my own. In those years I participated in aborting a life that I’d helped create. Regret and shame from that decision surfaced many years later in counseling during my recovery.

Career choices made in those early years also didn’t support raising a family. I traveled like a carnival vendor in my 30s and into my early 40s in the sports television business—gone 46 weekends a year out of 52. The saying “a ship in every port” wouldn’t be far from the truth in describing my relationship status. There were a couple of meaningful relationships—even shared a home with one of my loves. But I was gone. All the time. I couldn’t see fatherhood on the horizon because I really couldn’t welcome marriage.

So, what do I actually know about fatherhood? Sitting at breakfast today with several loved ones, I was reminded that one key difference between motherhood and fatherhood is the level of biological investment—that a woman can’t possibly know what it’s like to be a mother without having had a child. Whereas a father’s duties could be assumed and performed and understood more easily. I’m not sure. But I do know that I have witnessed both wonderful and despicable examples of fatherhood up close and personally.

My own father, who I’ve written about a few times but none more than in my Father’s Day tribute this year, had a heart attack at age 60. He’s now 88. My Dad was my constant companion and also my coach. As his first son, he was constantly teaching me the skills of all the major ball sports. I became an above average football, basketball, and baseball player—advanced for my age compared to nearly all of my peers. Attentive and present in my younger years, my father largely disappeared from that role due to career demands as I entered my teenage years. Most of my game performance memories include Mom in the stands, while Dad was in an office or a hotel far away, or on a corporate jet going or coming back from somewhere. When my Dad did show up for a game, what I remember is the intense pressure to perform—which wasn’t a normal feeling when he wasn’t around.

It was only in my recovery and counseling sessions decades later that I began to understand and deal with the profound sense of loss and abandonment I had felt at the time. I know now—but didn’t understand at the time—that much of my acting out and my rebelliousness stemmed from this need for his attention—through whatever means.

My father was a powerful man and a palpable presence. I lived my life, on and off the field of play, attempting to win his love and foster his sense of pride in me. I’m sure he felt both of those feelings, but my Dad, like many men of his generation, struggled with expressing those emotions outwardly and verbally. So I searched—and was left wanting.

I remember getting the phone call from my younger brother on Christmas Day 1995. My parents were visiting my brother’s home in Dallas for the holiday week. I was skiing with my girlfriend and her family in Vail—my home at the time. My early model Motorola cellphone had zero coverage in the back bowls of Vail and remained tucked away deep in a pocket of my Descente vest. It was only when I reached the bottom of the mountain at the end of the day that I got the message. “Dad had a heart attack at the kitchen table following a Christmas morning run around the neighborhood He’s alive and in the hospital in Plano.”

I immediately dug into my plentiful United Mileage Plus account for a flight to Dallas. I was able to make it there the next morning. I stayed for a week and ended up driving my maternal Grandmother Polly back to Arizona in my Dad’s car. My gig at the time was as on-site race announcer and co-producer for the US Professional Ski Tour on ESPN. Miraculously, I had a couple of weeks respite before I had to be in Squaw Valley, California in mid-January. I have many memories of that week. I remember that my Dad had zero short term memory of the event—to this day. I would walk out of the hospital room for a coffee or a quick pee, leaving my brothers and my Mom there. When I’d return my Dad would look at me and exclaim “Dee what are you doing here?” I’d been with him for the last couple of days and he couldn’t remember me being in the room 10 minutes ago. I vividly remember the soft, loving look on his face as he laid eyes upon me—for the first time he thought—for the 20th time in several days. My Dad was vulnerable and emotionally transparent. It was something I’d never seen before those moments in the hospital room. He had always seemed so strong—larger than life. It shook me to my core, but it also endeared me in a way that was unrecognizable. My hero—my rock—on his back unable to fill out the Superman suit I’d always seen him in.

One of my Father’s memorable life corrections following the remarkable recovery from his heart attack was to invest in a mandatory family reunion every other Christmas. We’ve now done it 13 times in the 28 years hence. All of these events were at my parents’ expense and all of them were at amazing destinations. Each of our lives henceforth have been enhanced by this gift of generosity from my parents. One direct outcome of these gatherings, and also of the many Father/Son golf outings we made together, was to build a bridge to my father. The time—with a new understanding of the fact that we were all on borrowed time—helped me understand what his commitment to his children meant, and to know that he and my Mother were doing the absolute best that they knew how. I learned forgiveness, and I learned to pivot from fear and respect into acceptance and love.

Father figures have been important in my life. Two that stand out were from high school. Both taught me things that I didn’t fully recognize until much later. One was my high school basketball coach Dawson Pike. A quiet and stoic leader of young men, he encouraged me without hesitation to broaden my life experience by quitting the team my senior year to play the lead in our school’s musical that year. The other was on the receiving end of that decision of mine; Dr. Charles Prokasky, the choral director at our school who first tempted me to take on the singing role of Curly in “Oklahoma.” The only prerequisite was that I had to drop out of being the point guard for our returning 29-3 Missouri State Championship runner-up basketball team. Both men taught me fearlessness—just as a father might. I write about this decision in the same Father’s Day essay referenced above.

Each of my two brothers raised two daughters. At a point in their young lives, both men took sabbaticals from their lucrative corporate careers to spend more quality time as dads. It shows. All four of my nieces are wonderful young women with a solid foundation of sound and reasonable thinking courtesy of a loving and present two-parent household.

I have tried to be a loving and highly engaged uncle in the lives of each of these fine young women. On our most recent family gathering a few years ago in Coronado, my four nieces took me aside and presented me with a lovingly constructed picture and prose scrapbook. The personal messages from each of them, and the photos contained within represented their pride in me for my recovery journey, and in my investment in their young lives as their uncle. I was beyond moved. It is one of my most treasured possessions.

I have had the wonderful experience of being “Uncle Dee” to the children of many of my close friends, teaching them how to throw and catch—giving them a sense of manhood from a different perspective to supplement what their own fathers—my good friends—might provide. I have since lost a couple of those friends much too early, and I still maintain a relationship with their sons and daughters.

These loving relationships—while not replacing the experience of raising my own children—have added richness and meaning to my life. All of these close examples of wonderful fathers both within and outside my nuclear family were positive and loving ones.

As a part of my journey through addiction and recovery, I’ve also seen despicable examples of parenting by fathers. Neglect, abuse, mistreatment, abandonment, and heartbreaking tragedy. These tragic fathers’ lives were very likely set in motion by trauma or abuse in their own young lives. Both trauma and addiction—particularly in alcoholism—are generational within families. Not because of biology—there hasn’t been any scientific research supporting an addiction “gene” although laymen might claim it now and then. The perpetuation of addiction in families is based entirely upon learned behaviors and narratives and trauma that is passed on from fathers and mothers to sons and daughters.

Is it better for a child to not have a father, or to have a father that is abusive? Circular question requiring much more dialogue. Prisons and treatment centers and morgues are full of young men of both experiences. Dr. Gabor Mate is a renowned and somewhat controversial expert on trauma, and he speaks about the “little Ts” of shame and slight and disappointment as being as equally impactful on young people as the “big Ts” of violence and abuse. Maybe more so due to their quiet and insidious nature.

I believe the evidence indicates that one of the key parenting measures today involves monitoring the use of social media. It’s clear that this online environment has caused great harm to our young people that have grown up with it. Kids who represent otherwise healthy lives on the outside can nonetheless have secret second lives of anger, FOMO, anxiety and depression in their online lives. I don’t know how to effect change in this area as a non-parent, but I do know that social media can be as devastatingly addictive as any other substance.

Through my recovery, I’ve invested time, treasure, and professional expertise to the Children’s Program of Hazelden Betty Ford. This unique and powerful workshop program was designed by Betty Ford herself and addresses the specific trauma and emotional burdens borne by the children of alcoholics and addicts. I know the percentages. They’re not good. The cycles must be broken somewhere in the family tree. In my soul, I’m grateful to be here, after the debilitating years of self-destructive behavior.

To put a sharp point on this entire reflection on fatherhood: my father is the only one person in the entire universe who could have pulled off my effective intervention on Nov 23, 2009. God, my friends, my other family, my business partners, my lovers—had all tried. Only my Dad could reach deep into my gut full of shame and command me to take the next right action. And he did. And I am—recovered.

One related aspect of my life experience in fatherhood is as a pet rescuer and dog dad. I’ve “parented” 8 dogs in my adult years: 6 rescues and 2 pedigreed purebreds. Most of this time was as a single parent. Only in the last few years has our family expanded to include the love of my life, Ann, who has loved and welcomed four 70+ pound beast mutts into our life together. None of my dogs has ever spent time in a kennel, with two exceptions at a luxury ranch pet resort in AZ. Most always they have a full time in-house dogsitter and have remained in their own homes and beds while I’ve been away traveling. They have hiked to the top of 14,000-foot peaks in Colorado, taken cross-country road trips, slept in my bed, swum daily in my pools, and accompany me everywhere. They have all been spoiled relentlessly. The soaring joy and the unmatched grief of pets who love unconditionally without expectation or resentment is unique and known to all who have had the experience.

In summary, I’ve had powerful experiences of fatherhood while never having been a father. I feel privileged to be able to weigh in on the subject at all. Not every man gets to be a father. I think I would have been a good one. But it may have taken me awhile to grow into it. Who knows? Life deals us opportunities to make choices—that is our only guarantee. On this day, I still have the sound of my father’s voice in my head from my younger years, but softened by the life experiences, a new understanding, and the solid bridge built between us in the years since then. What an incredible gift.