Sober is Better, Part 1: Redux

For Recovery Month

For September 2024—which is National Recovery Month—I’ll be posting and re-posting more frequently. Please indulge me as I share my thoughts and experiences on living a sober and examined life.

This one first appeared in May ‘23—it’s brief and to the point about why Sober is Better. Enjoy.

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I hated birds when I was drinking and using. They were the sound of morning. The chorus of another beautiful brand-new day. For those in the grip of their addiction, they represent the suck that is coming. The responsibility of rising and facing—dealing with the detritus of the day and night before. Birds are the chorus of God’s wondrous nature shouting out its magnificence. Here it is! Here we are! Arise! You have another opportunity to change things…to begin anew.

Fuck that.

Woodpecker and Magpie. This dynamic duo frightened me the most. I’m convinced to this day that it was the same two birds. One of each. The team leaders. Sent by the Almighty to torment me in the pre-dawn madness of my trying to stave off the inevitable. The woodpecker had a favorite metal vent-pipe that rose above the roof of my house. The positioning of the pipe was directly above my master bedroom/bathroom area. The hammering would begin when the sun was a mere hint in the eastern sky…an hour away from revealing anything useful to anyone. My bedroom was quiet. My dogs were asleep—ambivalent and unaffected. I love dogs for that. They stir when I stir. Not before. But that woodpecker had it in for me. As much as I despised that woodpecker’s occasional visit—and it seemed to know just when to visit—the sound a magpie makes is worse. A harsh, chattering wock, wock wock-a-wock, wock, pjur, weer, weer. It penetrates walls, windows, roofs, and skulls. There is nothing remotely attractive about the magpie’s wail.

None of these pleas from nature’s ambassadors would be enough to initiate a change in my life. My response instead was to peel myself from my sweaty sheets—storm out the back door in my undies—and fire various projectiles at the birds. I’ve thrown tennis balls, rocks, shoes. On several occasions I fired at them with my Daisy Buffalo Bill replica BB gun. Some small fragment of inner reason kept me from pulling out the shotgun. Not once did I fell the free-flying foes of my pre-dawn angst. They’d quickly return for more torment.

The memory of when it all changed is still vivid. For newly sober people there are dozens of firsts. The experience of (re)doing many of the routine things I had become accustomed to doing with a solid buzz. Going to a concert. A baseball game. Out to dinner with friends. Driving past your favorite haunts. The first belly laugh that won’t stop. Staying alone in a nice hotel on a business trip. Flying first class (frequent flyer upgrades).

It was the end of February when I returned to my Denver home after my 93-day stint at the Betty Ford Center. Spring was trying to push its way into Colorado. Walking out of my back door to my garage one day to go to my daily 7 am meeting at York Street, I heard my former adversary. I glanced up to the roof and stood for several moments listening to the insistent call. wock, wock wock-a-wock, wock, pjur, weer, weer.

Hello old friend. I don’t hate you. I hated the life I was living. You, sir, were a sharp, relentless reminder of that fact. Fuck you very much. I’m better now.

Magpies are thought of as symbols of good luck and fortune in many Asian countries, whereas in England folks use the term “magpie’s nest” to describe something untidy and of little value. In fact, many Brits superstitiously think of seeing a single Magpie as bad luck, but two or more as good luck. Whatever. In wine country, the magpie is a common orchard pest. Koreans love magpies for whatever reason...it’s their national bird. Good for them. They like to eat dogs too, so there is that.

These days, my Central Texas home environment consists of several acres of well-fed native songbirds nesting and mating amongst dozens of live oaks, ashe junipers, persimmons, and Carolina buckthorns. Several feeders around the yard gives us premium seats for their lively show. Which brings the squirrels. Which give the dogs something to do.

The mornings are a glorious chorus of Cardinals, Mockingbirds, Bluejays, American Robins, Bluebirds, Waxwings, Spotted Towhees, Goldfinches, Painted Buntings, Purple Martins, Grackles, Ruby-crowned Kinglets, and yes…woodpeckers. Tons of hummers. In their appropriate season we have red-tail hawks screeching for their mates, Barn owls, turkey vultures, and the occasional roadrunner dashing across the yard entertaining the dogs in a game of chase. The constant cacophony reminds me that I’m very much alive. As I’m writing this, several male Cardinals are chirping and squawking and dancing, competing for the attention of the lasses.

Like them, I am free. I am a survivor. Each day begins with a sense of possibility and gratitude. Their songs bring a smile to my face over my morning cup. Wake up! Stand up! Eyes to the sky! It’s a beautiful brand-new day!

A few of my friends here in town have helped me learn more about the many native and migrating species that inhabit our region.

Best news? No fucking magpies.