The new routine is read and then write

I have just finished Brené Brown’s new book Atlas of the Heart. In it, she states that most people are familiar with three emotions: happy, sad, mad. Oof.

After defining the deficiency in language and successfully hooking this reader, she goes on to describe 87 emotions and experiences. Eighty-seven! Even after reading the book, I went back to the table of contents to count them. Brené puts them into categories of “Places we go when…” Perhaps that is why they didn’t seem so daunting.

I am fascinated by the research method she uses. She is a quantitative researcher using grounded theory. She writes on where the research takes her, not on a theory she comes up with and sets out to prove. I love that she defines this for the reader because once the theory comes from the research, then and only then does she go out and to find other research that supports her data. Her books are loaded with other research and studies. A hilarious side effect is that the results of her research often frustrate her as a measuring stick Texan. Not to mention she is 20 years deep into her work, no end in sight. Another finding leads to another question and the work continues.

I find this work so necessary in the present moment. When it comes to emotions, the language of, emotional well-being, mental health, and meaningful connection, we, as a society, are infants.

In my own life experience, the stories go back to the dust bowl and WWII. My grandmother was born in 1929. Think about how much has changed in her lifetime. My parents are boomers born in 1948 and the result of the WWII generation. I was born in 1979 and computers became an accessible thing in my lifetime. Trying to explaining half of this to my kid, born in 2015 is near impossible.

Our rate of change is alarming. Mental health is still a relatively new concept. Disconnection in the digital age is also very new. It’s changing us in ways that have no precedent. If we don’t evolve, we won’t evolve. That sounds kind of dangerous to me. So 87 emotions and experiences? Okay, I’m in.

Here is the list. Good luck.

If you made it this far and are fascinated instead of frustrated, welcome. You are in good company.

My word for 2023: Discipline

I suppose the self is implied, but when I searched for a an inspirational picture of discipline, self discipline was far more represented.

My word for 2022 was consistency. I believe I honored that word and my intentions in 2022. I am in my longest bout of sobriety at 955 days or about two and a half years. I consistently show up to one of the best jobs I have ever had. I consistently adhere to my daily routine of prayer and meditation in the morning, and going to bed by 9ish. I attend therapy. I keep a strict schedule with my medications. I stay connected to myself and others. The nature of addiction is bio-psycho-social-spiritual and all things must be consistently addressed to remain healthy.

It thrills me to no end to be content with where I am on a particular matter and still want to improve or grow. I am thrilled with my life and still, I want to grow.

You are witnessing an aspect of the new word if you are reading this. I suppose it’s been a few months back that I changed my morning routine. I was reading multiple inspirational and spiritual daily readers, and then journaling on my thoughts. I have most recently and consistently done this for about three years, but it has been a practice for about 12 years. However, it wasn’t inspiring me like it used to. So instead of dropping the routine all together, I altered it. I started reading books, so far non-fiction. I missed the journaling aspect and so, here we are.

Blogging is different than journalling for me because I journal for myself whereas I blog to be read. I feel as though I am writing to someone versus writing to myself or my higher power. It is a different form of writing and brings me a different kind of joy.

I digress. Discipline. I am content with where I am in my life AND I can do better. I’m the one who benefits. What is holding me back from putting the bowl in the dishwasher or emptying the dishwasher of clean dishes before the dirty ones fill the sink? What is stopping me from using the rowing machine that has sat in the living room since we moved into this house? What keeps me from mowing the lawn just long enough that it is more difficult to mow now that it’s taller? Why do I hop in my car when I could ride my bike to work?

There are two catalysts for this word: One is my health and weight, the other is my education. Everything is fine just the way it is. I have never had a higher quality of life. Never. I am so grateful. I am content. The question is where can I go from here?

The answer is anywhere I damn well please.

Rest in Peace, Dear One

One of my most dear friends died Christmas morning. She spent Christmas Eve Day with all three of her children and 2 of her grand-babies. Her eldest announced a pending birth of the next grand-baby and I’m told she was overjoyed. Her children found her the next morning in her bed.

She was one of the most kind, loving, caring people I have ever known. She was great at caring for others and I was no exception. Belinda was one of the first people that reached out to me at the very beginning of my recovery. I didn’t know it then, but I was at the end of my first marriage. I went to medical detox and was to come home to an empty apartment, my significant at the time leaving me while I was in detox.

In order to avoid coming home to an empty disheveled apartment, Belinda invited me to stay at her home. Prior to going to detox, I hadn’t eaten in a month. I ate what they served (to the best of my recollection) and was now on my own to make food decisions. I remember choosing iceberg lettuce and strawberries.

I was devastated to be losing my first wife and sober 7 days. It’s a dark place to be. Belinda’s idea was to take my mind off of things, even for a short while. She put in a DVD of Jeff Dunham, the ventriloquist comic. I sat on the floor of her home eating a plain head of lettuce, and strawberries dipped in sugar. And we laughed. She didn’t try to fix anything or make me feel better. We just laughed. This was in 2009 and we have been friends ever since.

Belinda was one of those friends that became close and never let that closeness fade. She was so warm and quiet and calm. I moved from Wichita that same year, but we never lost the closeness, no matter how long it had been since we last spoke. When anything important happened in her life, she would call, as would I.

I was called for the announcement of her wedding, pending births of grand-babies, and almost anything her children were doing. When one of her children came to look at the campus at KU, we spent a lovely day on the hill.

Most recently, on August 11th, 2021, Belinda’s wife Gloria died. Belinda was devastated. I went and spent several days with her helping with Celebration of Life arrangements. Since our very first experience together, when I stayed in her home, she has been so comforting to me. I always wanted to extend that same gift to her.

This time the call came from one of her children, Becca. My phone rang Christmas morning and I knew something was wrong. I cannot imagine what her children are going through. I am grateful that her love lives on in them. I never once questioned her love for me. May I give that same love to her grieving children. They have been part of the joy of knowing the most fabulous Belinda Boston.

The dedication of her children shown here at Gloria’s service.

My Dearest Belinda, I know, even in death, that you are concerned about the pain your children are currently in. Believe me when I tell you that the comfort you brought others continues. They will be okay. Rest in Peace, dear one. I pray you are enjoying your release from earthly limitations. I pray your soul has found Gloria’s and any others you had lost in life. Thank you for your friendship and love. I am a better human because of you. Love, Holly

Who’s idea was this?! Letting children ride bikes?!

I was flat out not prepared for letting my tiny precious breakable wobbly adventurous daredevil human to ride a bike. It was all fun and games when we were on our little side street weaving cones and brushing up on skills. But then she wants to ride to her friend’s house along the speedway of 15th Street.

I mean just look at her. She is clearly in peril. She is unskilled and unprepared. Let’s run to the store and get elbow pads, knee pads, shoulder pads, a rib cage protector, maybe just an entire suit of armor. Why are humans not coated in some sort of protective shell anyway, like beetles or turtles?

Despite my current exploration into naming emotions, the only one I can think of to describe riding behind her on the sidewalk of a busy street is fear. No, terror. Physical discomfort. She’s too far in front of me. She’s going to slip on the wet leaves and veer right into traffic. She will probably ride right off the curb and into the drainage ditch. And why is that drainage spout so big anyway? A small human could fall in! I should call the city. Oh my god, she just raced across that intersection without even looking! Easy on the downhill! Stay in control! Brake! Watch out for those sugar maple droppings! Wet leaves! And oh my god, why is everyone driving so fast! Slow down! This is all just a death trap! Abort! Abort!

Not prepared. But we all survived the ride. Four times, in fact. The final time we headed home as she rode down the rollercoaster sized hill to our turn, she let out a massive WHOHOOOOO, her hair and helmet wings flapping in the wind. Then almost fell into the drainage ditch turning onto our street.

Obviously I must hide or sell the bike before she visits again but it was fun while it lasted. Two wheels is far to dangerous for mothers of breakable children. I think we will keep both feet on the ground inside the fenced in back yard from now on. But I should probably still order the suit of armor.

January One, Twenty Twenty-Three

Happy NewYear, you filthy animals!

Where do I restart? How do I jump in? Who is this for? I guess in the end, when I decided to start writing again, it brought me joy. So there you go. It’s for me. But I like it when others read and engage. Truthfully, I wanna be like Brené Brown. I want everyone to read what I write. Eh, she has like 20 years experience and several degrees. I have yet to finish my bachelors. Don’t think that is a self put down. I’ll finish it. It’s only a matter of time. Funny thing is I am quite content with where and I am AND thrilled as to where anything might go.

I have been thinking about starting to write again since I changed my morning routine. I used to do daily spiritual readers and then physically journal about my thoughts with pencil and paper. This can lead to some amazing discoveries about yourself, the way you interact with yourself and others, how you are navigating life, with what attitude, and perpetuate spiritual growth. I should say I only speak for myself, and that is what it has done for me. After about three and a half to four full years of doing this (two and a half of those years continuously sober), it started to feel a little unfulfilling. I also went through a mental health dip that included discouragement in my work and a general irritation about any tiny little thing at home. That is so not me. I am generally thrilled with literally almost anything. I can sit down at any given moment and toss out a gratitude list that would go on for pages. That made this dip troubling.

So I changed things up. I started reading new things in the morning and not journalling. Again, think Brené Brown because she is my current obsession. I have blown through 3-4 books and I sit in the quiet for 2-3 hours in the morning reading. This is new and different. I am taking in new information to reignite the continuous spiritual growth. This is an essential part of my current existence as an addict/alcoholic in long term recovery. Continuous spiritual growth.

What was working stopped working, maybe stalled is a better description, so I changed it up and relit my desire for more.