“Cat’s in The Cradle”, or more aptly titled,……….I love you dad

21:40 on June 21, 2013. That is the time, and the date, upon which my father died.

The end of the first day of summer.
And the end of a protracted period of suffering for a man that I loved.

And at times despised.
Admired. And often resented.
Feared. And respected.

My dad.

For all of his faults – real or perceived, observed or projected – he was the man who shaped much of the man that I was to become. The man who provided me with the foundations to build those parts that were to become my best, as well as my worst.

Let me tell you a little about my dad.

Dad was driven. Driven to succeed. And driven to excess. A self-made millionaire, he perpetuated the ideology of the ‘dream’ of our neighbours to the south. Starting from the hard-scrabble of nothing – and I truly mean nothing, if the stories that I heard as a child are to be believed – he forged his way into the world of business, proving to be a salesman that laid definition to the term, and discovered that he had a talent. And a tenacity. And that when these were combined – drive, talent and tenacity – my dad always succeeded.

In business, dad was virtually golden.

In affairs of family – and being a father – I thought that he failed miserably.

I learned at a very young age that I would never be able to be ‘good enough’ for my dad. To coin Stephen Stills, “I never failed to fail; it was the easiest thing to do”

And that remained true until the moment that I began to truly take responsibility for myself, and who I was, and began to stop blaming others. Mostly, my dad.

When I entered into the realm of recovery from a life of alcoholic drinking and drug addiction, the entire world in which I live began to change. Because I began to accept things as they are, and as they were. Rather than lamenting how I wished they might have been.

When I began to truly examine some of my own inner demons; my personal failings; my shortcomings and character defects, I began to be see them more objectively in my dad.
In beginning to understand myself, I started to understand a little more about the man who helped to raise me. About the man who tried his damnedest to love me, and managed his failings with anger.

I am 46 years old.
I have a work ethic that is second to no one.
My name is my bond. And my bond is golden.
I have a passion for learning that is nigh-on insatiable.
I am a voracious reader, and will devour everything from Whitman to King, Thoreau to Cervantes, Tolstoy to Koontz.
I am good at what I love. And I love what I am good at.
I am as dependable as a Saint Bernard, and as loyal to boot.

And all of these things I owe to my dad.

But that is not the best part.

No, the best part – the part that raises a lump in my throat and brings a tear to my eye as I type - is the other thing that happened when I entered into recovery.

I met my father. The man within the man who had always been my dad. And we talked, and we talked, and we talked……
We laughed. We cried. We hugged and in many ways we began to get to know each other for the very first time. And to love each other as I thought that we never would.

I have so much to be grateful for in my life. And nothing more so than the friendship that I was able to share with a man that I came to begin to know and understand in these last 7 years.
I am so very happy to know that my father loved me, and to have had the chance to let him know just how much his son loved him.

This one will always be ours dad. I love you man.

A loving son,

Peace

On public speaking; whimsy; and dancing the twisties…

The weekend of May 11 and 12 was a rainy, cold, no-riding weekend. We will not talk any more of that.

I did, however, buy mom some mum’s, and I visited with her over lunch of Wendy’s take-out. Mom and dad are both in a retirement residence now. Mom is thriving. Dad is dying. And so the story goes… 

On Wednesday, May 15 I was invited to speak at Algonquin College in front of a class currently studying in the Trauma and Addictions Recovery program. I am currently studying in my final course of this 22 course program, and I have enjoyed it thoroughly. So when one of my past teachers invited me to come and speak in her class I readily accepted.

Boy, I do love to talk, lol.  Starting at 6:00pm,I had planned on speaking for about 45 minutes, then answering questions for another 15 or 20 minutes, and being back home by 7:30pm.

Heather laughingly pointed to her watch when everything appeared to be winding down and chuckled, “see, I told you we would keep you until 9:00pm”
I really do have to focus some energy on turning this whole public speaking thing into a regular part-time gig. I am consistently vitalized by the experience.

This may sound strange – and out of context it would sound rather baffling – but I am so thankful to be an alcoholic and a drug addict. For I have realized gifts, and blessings, that so often go untapped. Un-awakened. Under-utilized. Unnoticed.

We truly are the lucky ones, those of us who have lived to tell the tale.

And then, quickly as that, the weekend was upon us. And a long weekend to boot. The weather forecast for Saturday was brilliant, and that was all that mattered.

A bunch of members from the riding group that I joined two years ago – the Canadian Motorcycle Cruisers, or CMC , Ottawa chapter - the 011 – had organized a ride to Mont Tremblant in the Laurentians for lunch, with a spectacular opportunity to dance the beautiful dance along highway 327 on the way back to Ottawa.

 A ride not to be missed, to be sure. We met at one of our regular points of departure – a Tim Horton’s in Orleans, and by mid-morning we were riding in formation along highway 148 in Gatineau on our way towards an exceptionally great day of riding, camaraderie and laughs. We ate lunch at the resort at Mont Tremblant – a couple of pictures are included below, and a link to the rest on my Photobucket page is HERE – and as always we had a great time, with a couple of really random moments, such as a group of young college girls – one a bride-to-be – approaching our table and asking if someone could get her a blow-job. I am afraid the rest of that story must remain on the mountain.



Ahem.

Sunday was another cool and rainy day. So I did what anyone would do in my situation, and spent 6 hours rendering and editing the video that I shot during our ride the day before.

If you are interested, you can watch it HERE.

Then, having completed that task, and wondering what to do next – it was still pouring rain, you see – I decided to start researching the painting of my bike on the internet. And before long, I was outside shaving the ‘American Classic Edition’ emblems off of my gas tank.

I have a new inspiration.

She is known as FLAT BLACK.

Rattle-canned, no less.
I plan on starting this project in earnest sometime this week. I will post photos and info as I go. I just hope that at no point do I scratch my head wondering what the hell I was thinking on that cold, rainy Sunday afternoon.

And finally, yesterday, the holiday Monday of the Victoria Day long weekend, several members once again got together to ride. We had originally planned on heading out to Westport – always a great ride – but plans changed, as they are so often apt to do, and we instead headed into Gatineau. We rode the 105 up to Wakefield and stopped for lunch before continuing on up to Paltimore. And I have to say, the ride was amazing. I was re-introduced to a dance partner that I had not danced with in two years – Rue Principale 307 and chemin du pont in Paltimore. The curves were many, the twisties just right, and, to coin a song, ‘we danced. Like a wave on the ocean, romanced.’

I managed another 600+ kilometers during 2 days of riding. And writing about it makes me wish I was riding right now.

I will allow you two guesses as to why I am not.

One if you heard that thunder-clap.


Thanks for continuing to ride along. Stay dry, and keep the rubber side down.

I’m baaaack. I’m baaaack in the saddle agaaaiinnn…

Well, the season is finally underway. A little late, when compared to last year. And a little bit of a rougher start. But all is well now.
I actually picked my bike up from the dealership where I store it for the winter on April 17. Having a new clutch installed over the winter season, as well as two new tires, brought my season opener bill up to just shy of $1500.00. I paid that happily, envisioning a season of incredible adventure ahead of me.
The adventure started a little sooner than I anticipated. When I parked the bike at home that afternoon – riding straight home from the dealership – my buddy Shawn, who was following me home in my car, announced 4 words that caused my skin to crawl, and my bones to chill.
“Joe, you’re leaking oil”.
I looked up at Shawn, hoping that I had somehow heard him wrong. “It’s all over the windshield of your car dude”.
Fuck! There was no denying it now. I thought that I could smell something a little, well, off, on the way home. Turns out that smell was the stink of brand new oil burning on the rapidly heating cooling-fins of my front cylinder. I had a blown head gasket. And the truth was plain to see as soon as I looked. Freshly changed clean oil was dripping off of the bottom of my coolant reservoir. It was burned into the fins on my cylinder cover. It was running down the feeder tube from the front of the cylinder. It was freakin’ everywhere.
My heart sunk. For a moment.
And then I picked up the phone and called Maurino. He sent a truck out the next day to pick up my bike, and after another interminable 2 weeks, on May 2, I picked up my bike. Again.
I have pretty much been smiling ever since. I racked up 600 kms on the odometer during my first weekend of riding. I went to a swap meet. I’ve already dragged my footpegs in the twisties twice.
The season of my discontent is past.
The first riding weekend of the season was glorious. The weather could not have been better. Warm and sunny, but not stifling. A few of the lads from the CMC invited me to meet up Saturday morning for breakfast before heading off to the always popular Capital City Bikers Church Swap Meet. Lots of bikes, lots of really neat stuff to check out, and as always, lots of friends happy to see each other after a long, cold off-season.

After leaving the swap-meet Dave, Brian, John and I decided that it was time to go ‘dancing’, so we hopped astride our bikes and headed for Calabogie via the 511. Our timing was not great – just as we were approaching the section of 511 that includes some of the sweetest twisties in the area we fell in line behind a group of that really rare breed – ‘Sunday morning Harley riders’. And it was freakin’ Saturday! I swear this must have been a group of Harley riding seniors, because the needle on my speedo never touched 75 kph over the next 15 minutes. Oooohhh, the agony…..the 511 is not a ‘slow-dance’ partner. She wants to be grooved….move those hips….drag those pegs….
We stopped for lunch at Munford’s and after that I split off from the guys. I headed a little further into the hills to a small camping spot that my friend James introduced me to the weekend before and brought him the coffee that he forgot to pack in his camping gear. It was while dancing along the Centennial Lake road that I dragged my pegs for the first time this season.
Calabogie Camp
I remember the first time that this ever happened to me. I was riding on the 327 coming back from Mont Tremblant 2 years ago. It scared the crap out of me at first. But then I took the time to reflect on what had actually happened. My bike and I were no longer ‘my bike and I’. We were one together. Sensory input became muscular output converted to engineering dynamics, horsepower and physics. We flowed through the dance moves with a smoothness that defies my ability to describe through words. And the scraping of the pegs, for me anyway, is almost a sort of ‘sweet-spot’. Maybe simply because of the utter exhilaration that comes upon realizing that the scraping sound of metal on asphalt, in this case, does not bring with it disaster, but instead a sense of triumph.
Don’t get me wrong. I do not go out and make a point of trying to mark the asphalt with the soft white metal of my foot-pegs. That, I believe, would be akin to inviting disaster. But when my bike and I are dancing with the right partner, and all of our moves are in tune, it sometimes happens. And it always elicits an ‘ah, there it is’ feeling for me.
After leaving the camp site I headed home on the 508, another of the local roads that I will never tire of riding.
Then, last Sunday morning I decided to head for my hometown – Lancaster, Ontario. There are several different routes from which to choose when traveling from Ottawa. Some fairly direct, and some less so. I usually choose the less-direct routes, however that morning I decided to travel the same way that I did for years when I was still living in Lancaster but working in Ottawa – the 417 to the Highland Road – Maxville exit, then through Maxville, Apple Hill, along the Chapel road to John Street (another sweet little dance partner) through Williamstown and on to Lancaster.
The day was one of memories. Hundreds of them. Riding down the Highland road I was transported back to 1983, to an evening in January that found me driving home from Ottawa after work one Friday night. A typical Friday night that involved a few too many beers with the guys before hitting the road in my Cutlass. I missed a curve, flew through the snow bank and went airborne off an embankment, my car coming to rest just a few feet shy of a 15 foot wide, 10 foot deep drainage ditch. Just one of many times where, all things considered, I should have been severely injured or killed. Yet I walked away unscathed, having learned nothing, turning it into a story to laugh with the guys about over beers every subsequent Friday night until the next moment of reckless stupidity took its place.
Missed curve
Approaching Apple Hill I began to start focusing on how sweet it was going to be to really push it on John street, a twisty little two lane that follows the river into Williamstown. I had just slipped into fourth gear, throttle cracked wide, when I noticed the flashing blue-and red’s of an OPP cruiser that had an unsuspecting speeder pulled over. That was the only clue that I needed. I kept the needle at or below the limit for the rest of the journey, and considering the condition of the asphalt that was a very good choice. I may have remembered the road, and all of it’s twists and turns. But I had not danced her length on my bike yet. And the crumbling, washboard-rough asphalt may have taught me a hard learned lesson if it were not for that cruiser being there to slow me down.
I do not believe in coincidences.
Arriving in Lancaster I rode to my friend Derek’s house. I went for a ride in his absolutely gorgeous 1972 Camaro and we caught up on each other’s lives. I think it is safe to say that we are both doing much better than we ever thought we would.
Derek’s ‘72  
I then headed down highway 2 to drop in and say hi to my old friend, Trevor. And the memories continued to come. Passing by the mail box that stands at the end of the driveway to the big old Victorian mansion in which I grew up elicited thoughts of waiting for the school bus each morning, and the abilities that my younger brother and I had to find adventure in the ordinary and the mundane. Ah, but for the imagination of my youth.
Childhood home
Just past the old house I rode by the Ontario Tourist information kiosk where I rolled my snowmobile at 65 mph some 30 + years before. And once again walked away unmarked, and unfazed. I can still here Trevor and Scotty laughing about that one.
After a short visit with Trevor, and a promise to get together soon, I headed back to Lancaster and stopped at the Tim Horton’s. There I met another rider named Jo – short for Jocelyn – who goes by the handle ‘Pink Floyd Jo’
The pics here tell that story.
Jo has gone through some life recently, and like many of us has found calm and serenity dancing the beautiful dance on two wheels . Though we had never met before, I know Jo. And he knows me. I shared some information about the club, and invited Jo to check out the CMC 011. I believe that he will. And I believe that he will be another man who has found a place. A place to belong. And a place to be.
I left Jo at the Timmies and headed to Summerstown along highway 2. There I stopped in to see my older brother, and as always, I left feeling even better than I did when I arrived. I love you bro’.
And that was the weekend. I headed back to Ottawa from Cornwall on the 138 to the 417,and clocked 603 kilometers for the first two days of riding this season. As I write this it is cool and rainy at 10:45 on Saturday morning. But the weather channel says it is going to clear by early afternoon.
Hmmmmm….whatever shall I do?
Thanks for riding along….
Peace.

I am back, and not a moment too soon….

Hello again. To those of you who are still here, and still reading – thank you. For your patience. And for thinking you may still come across something worthwhile. I hope not to let you down, but let’s be honest. I write for the catharsises of writing. And after the last 6 or 7 weeks, I need to write.

Some of you know me on a personal level. Are familiar with my story – in greater detail than I have written here. And I dare say, a couple of you may have been kind of cringing after my last couple of posts. “What the hell is he thinking?”  - or – “Joe, no. You know you can’t be that guy / do those things”.

I had to go through it. I had to re-learn a few truths. I had to re-visit some old behaviours – live in old patterns – experience old hurts – to remember – no, to be reminded. Reminded of the man, and boy, that I used to be. And to know, again, that I never need be that man, or child. Again.

I spent most of my life – and all of my adult life, seeking relationships with women that I could ‘save’, in one way or another. It was being that knight in shining armour that defined me. That provided me with that all important yet never concrete sense of self.

I allowed myself to live that experience again recently. And it was so not necessary. Or, was it? Yes, in truth, I guess it was absolutely necessary. Because it has allowed me to be who, and where, I am right now – or, write now, if you will, heheheh.

As I wrote in my last post, Mona has always had a very special place in my heart. I love her very, very much.

I forgot that, in truth, that is enough. And I tried to do, and be, so much more. I engaged in all of my old, classic using-behaviours. Well, except for actually using. Thank God.

I put myself in a position where I was vulnerable. That in itself is not a bad thing. It is a part of growth. Getting out of our ‘safe-zone’ and taking a chance or two. It actually felt very liberating to experience that vulnerability again. However, I forgot to keep my eyes as open as my heart. And I completely forgot to pay attention to me. And my own sense of self. My peace. My serenity. I went back to the old belief that I need to have that defined for me by another.

I forgot that loving someone need not involve expectations. As a matter of fact, in my opinion, loving someone means not having expectations. Accept them for who they are. And love them unconditionally.
Mona has accomplished quite a lot over the last 6 weeks. And I am very happy – even honoured – to have played a role in those successes.

So, this one is not all about you Mona. (That’s a bit of an inside joke – some of you will get it – others will think they do)

But it is about how very grateful I am to have gone through this often beautiful, always exciting, sometimes shitty experience with you.

I have come through the other side with a renewed understanding of who I am – and a whole raft of those ever-present ‘remember when’s’.

I have come to truly know that I am not only capable of loving another, but that I am also capable of loving myself. I have learned that I am willing to take those chances of the heart. To allow myself to be vulnerable, and in doing so experience some of life’s most precious moments.

And I have come to know that no matter what – regardless of the crap that may be tossed at us, or the moments of anguish that we may find ourselves experiencing – love does not end. It does not die, and it does not stop merely because life changes.

I have an absolutely amazing friend in a beautiful woman named Mona. A woman who is going through some struggles. Changes. Peaks and valleys.

Our friendship has deepened.

I love you Mo.

And I am very happy to be back in touch with me.

Andre M, I wish to thank you so very much for reaching out to me, and asking me to be of assistance to you. For in truth, you helped me more this morning than you could possibly know. Thanks brother.

My name is Joe. I am a very happy man. With a very good life. And more wonderful people in it than I ever thought that I could deserve.

I merely forgot that for a moment.

Thank you for being there for me. And God Bless.

Wow. What a day.

Peace.

Crepes in the Dark

It sometimes still amazes me how much can happen in as little as a week.

Especially when all of the stuff that normally happens in a week, still happens.

This one is all about surprises. The endearing gratitude that comes from realizing the unimaginable. And ‘who’da thunk-it’ moments.

I first met my friend Mona in the early part of 1998. More than 14 years ago. Two seriously screwed up individuals travelling a similar journey through the hell of addiction and all of the chaos that it entails.
And our paths crossed.

We hit it off pretty good from the beginning. A shared sarcastic, generally unflattering view of humanity. An evil laugh. Strength to roll with whatever life tossed at us. An ability to see trouble coming and generally get out of its way. Not always, but…

I was, shall we say, enamoured with Mona from the moment that I met her. I have always been attracted to a strong female personality, and they don’t come any stronger. It didn’t hurt that she was 5’ 9” of blond-ish bombshell either.

So I did what a lot of half-way intelligent men might have done in my position. I made sure not too piss her off, lol. And we became friends. Over time, really close friends. We shared some experiences that would make most of you cringe. But we also shared a lot of laughter. Something not very common in the living-in-the-sewers-of-life that crack addiction actually convinces us is plush and fabulous.

Then, years later, I gave up on ‘the life’. I was not strong enough to do it any more. I was broken and needed help to be put back together. And I was tired enough to ask for help.

My asking for help was, of course, heard by the Ottawa Drug Treatment Court. It was exactly what I needed in order to have a fighting chance. And I began what has become the most incredible life experience that I knew I could never have. Thankfully, I was wrong about what I believed I could, and could not, ever have. Because believe me when I tell you that I most certainly never believed that I could have the life that I now live to the fullest every day.

So, where is all this going, you ask.

Well. Let me tell you.

Mona, as you know, has begun to reach out for help. And I have also written in past blogs that I consider myself very fortunate to be one of the people that Mona has reached out to.

This woman knows that I love her. And she is okay with that. As a matter of fact, I think that suits her just fine. Because Mona has been hurt and lied to and beaten down before, as any of us familiar with the lifestyle have.

 Trusting is difficult.

But Mona trusts me.

And that is pretty darned special.

When Mona needs peace. When Mona needs quiet. When Mona needs safety, she has it here.

We had no plans yesterday. I asked Mona if she wanted to see her mom.

“She lives all the way in the Laurentian’s” said Mona. “It’s too far” said Mona.

What a fantastic day. I have mentioned in the past about how much I enjoy riding in the Laurentian’s. Now couple that with the joy of watching a mothers’ face light up as the daughter that she has not seen in several months walks into her arms. And the look of pure admiration and gratitude that a woman might then send your way in thanks.

It is moments like these that make everything I have ever been through – every shitty situation – every jail cell – every homeless night – all worth while.

No sooner had we walked in the door than I was instructed to take a seat and enjoy some brunch.
Homemade crepes. Strawberries. Molasses and apricot jelly. Deliciously strong coffee.We spent several hours at a beautiful mountain chalet-style home engaged in conversation and laughter.

Enjoy it I did. Every moment. And so did Mona.

Ghislaine and Phillippe, thank you for opening your home and inviting me in.

I will bring Mona back very soon. Those moments are too valuable to miss.

Mona is a little less stressed recently. She is eating well too. If mom’s crepes at 0400 in the morning can be considered eating well.

Yes, I think so too.

I love you Mona. And I am so very proud of you.

So how was your day?

 

Just about everything can be categorized. Quantified. Evaluated and valued.

Placed into one column or another.

Even good news.

I mean, if your dentist tells you that you have no cavities, well, that is good news.

Your 10 year olds’ teacher gives you no reason to regret having kids – good news.

Your 16 year old daughter really did simply miss her period – good news.

The car salesman really was able to swing you a deal – good news.

You got that long awaited – or better yet – unexpected raise at work – good news.

Each of you probably has a different order of importance to these ‘good news’ items.

Then there is that whole other column. You know, the one were we try to imagine the feeling of “you won the 6/49” kind of good news.

When an Oncologist walks into an interview room smiling.

Yeah – that kind of good news.

I went with Susie to see her Oncologist this morning. I am not even the one fighting cancer and yet I was almost crying with joy over ‘good news’.

It seems that this woman whom I stand in awe before – this woman who can cause me to wonder at her incredible fortitude – this woman whom I love – has a big, brightly shining light at the end of her proverbial tunnel.

Some good news is just better than others.

We spent the rest of the day enjoying each others company. Sharing good food. Shopping for the pure pleasure of buying something nice.

Laughing. And both, in our own, unspoken way, being grateful.

……..and that’s not all………

It has been a week of good news.

I stopped in to see my sister on Wednesday. I wanted to drop off a birthday card and gift for my mom, and touch base to get the latest update on the less-than-enjoyable current family situation that I mentioned in my last post.

Well. Wonder of wonders. As easy as that, my parents have decided that the best ‘next step’ is for them to move into an assisted living residence.

Okay. Maybe not quite as easy as that. Maybe a little more along the lines of mom saying something like “I don’t know what you are planning, but I am going – I want this”, and dad realizing that his life-long partner meant what she was saying. So dad decided that he, too, is going to move.

Of course, if I had to guess, I would bet that to hear dad tell it, this was his idea all along.

Yes dad. Of course it was.

You may think that it is wrong, selfish, inappropriate for a son to be happy that his parents are moving into an assisted living residence. I assure you that this is far and away the best outcome. For mom. For dad. For my sister, who has placed her life on hold for the last 3 years to take care of my dad as he has progressively weakened.

It is sad. It is not easy. But it is most definitely for the best. And therefore it’s very own kind of ‘good news’.

And then there is Mona. My dear, fucked up, confused, scared friend Mona.

Mona is doing alright.

She doesn’t believe it yet. There are still too many unknowns. Too many possible bad outcomes. Too many things to fear. Too many reasons to have to count on others. Too possibly be let down.

Too little faith in herself.

But that is changing. Slowly, Mona is stretching.

“I know I have to start taking charge of my life, and soon” were the words written to me in a text this morning.

This, my friends, is what is known as a starting point. On the ‘wheel of change’ this is referred to as the contemplative stage.

It is also the beginnings of faith.

God bless you Mona. I love you hon – and will be there to help – or kick you in the ass – whichever the case may be.

I have been blessed in so many ways. A job that I love, which in truth is like being paid to do service work; a family that, screwed up as it is, is still able to make it through the shitty stuff without trying to tear each others throats out. And friends who are there for me, and who know that I am there for them.

It is an honour for me to know that I can be counted on. By me. And by others.

 

Wow. What a Monday, huh?

Up’s, down’s….and twisties!

 

I purposely stayed off the blog last week. Just to step back for a minute. Collect my thoughts. And decide just how personal and revealing it needs, or should be.

Still haven’t come up with an answer. So…..

Here we go.

I introduced you to my friend Mona the last time that I wrote. Things are pretty shitty for her right now. That is generally a given for us when we are active in our addictions and wanting to change.

It is not easy. As a matter of fact, it is really, really tough. I mean, imagine for a second, if you will, that someone has told you that the only way that your situation is likely to improve is for you to cut ties with virtually everyone who is currently a part of your life.

All of the people that you associate with on a daily basis – gone.

The people that you have convinced yourself are the only one’s who understand you – that you have come to call friends. Family. Lovers.

History.

The people that you KNOW, and that KNOW you – you have to say goodbye.

Could you do it?

Those of us who have spent our lives in the ever-darkening hell of active addiction generally have no choice but to do so. If we are to have even the barest of chances at survival and then growth into a new-found way of life, we must leave our old lives behind.

Separation anxiety, anyone? You’re damned right there is.

And that is where my friend is now. In the purgatory of desperately wanting to change, yet being stuck in the comfort of the familiar.

Having difficulty understanding this idea. Well consider this.

We are generally only afraid of the unknown. Of that which we do not yet understand. It is why the dark frightens most of us. Because we have no idea what lies in wait, with sharpened claws and dripping teeth, to cause us unbearable pain and torment.

Turn on a light – erase the shadows – show us that the path is clear and safe – and we are once again our happy-go-lucky selves, chuckling with bravado at our momentary lack of reason.

Well, my friends, the idea of recovering from a life-long addiction to drugs, and the associated lifestyles that go with it, often is that darkest of dark places. Because a life without drugs; without booze; without criminal behaviours and constant scamming - that is something that, for people like my friend Mona, and myself not so many years ago, is completely unknown. Something that we are not capable of understanding. Something that is very frightening. Precisely because we do not understand it.

Yet.

So my friend Mona is scared.

And that brings us to my current predicament.

You see, I have that understanding now. I have clawed my way from darkness and despair and I know first hand that it is all possible.

There was a time in my life – most of my life, actually – when I knew, just knew in my heart, that I could never have a ‘normal’ life. That I never would have peace. Quiet. Serenity. Happiness.

Everything that I knew, in the most tightly woven fibres of my being, that I could never have, I have since come to know and experience on a daily basis.

Every good thing that every other person had in their life – I now have in mine.

And I really want to help Mona to see this. To feel this. To believe this. To KNOW this.

I want her to trust that everything will be okay.

But my heart is involved here.I really care about this woman. So I have to ask myself – am I able to be selfless. To stay one step removed. To not fall further for her than I already have over the 14 years that we have known each other.

I don’t know.

And that is kind of scary.

I love you Mona. And I will do what I can. That much I can promise.

In other news………………

My dad is not doing well. He was in the hospital again last week. A fractured elbow suffered after yet another fall – this one resulting in him being found unconscious on the floor.

My brothers and sister and I are discussing next steps. It isn’t easy. Or pleasant.

On the up-side of things, though – Susie is doing really well. I mean, aside from the dozens of mosquito bites that she suffered last week, that continue to drive her out of her mind with their itchiness. Aside from that, things are good for Susie. No more fevers. No more unscheduled trips to the emergency room.

Wait a minute. Is a trip to the emergency room ever scheduled? No, I guess not.

Anyway, the point is that she continues to keep her chin held high, to laugh out loud, and to live life as fully as her situation allows. How could I not love this woman?

I am so proud of you Susie. Crazy about you too, but that is my issue, lol.

Finally, I have become the subject of an amateur photographer friend of mine. He has been experimenting with lenses, lighting and content over the past little while, and recently he snapped off a few of me and my bike.

I have to say, I am pretty happy with the results.

 

This picture comes pretty close to capturing the moment. And the magic.

You have to dance with the road – riding her curves – boogying through her twisties – to really get it. But this is pretty darned close.

I will post again next week. Or as the subject matter develops.

Be good to each other. And get out and RIDE!