Solo

I was home alone for three nights last week.

This length of solitude is so rare for me that I can recall exactly when it happened last. This is even easier to remember because the last time I was solo for so long a stretch I came up with the name for this blog: the Miracle of the Mundane.

That post, published years ago, was about the uncanny experience of anticipation. I realized then that the most exciting part of going solo was the time leading up to my family’s departure. It turned out to be more fun to think of all I could do than to actually do any of it.

This is true of life, I’ve found.

Our minds are not as close to our experience as we think.

Thoughts put us an arm’s length from living. We spend our days imagining how great things will turn out only if certain conditions are met. I’ll be happy when I retire. Or I’ll love my country again if the right person is in office. I often think that I’ll really get into writing once I have a book published.

It’s all nonsense.

The facts of existence are the metrics of miracles. And while suffering is an essential component to existence, it only punctuates the joy of living in the first place. If you can only be happy if a certain obstacle is out of your way, then you are the obstacle. The obstacle ceases to exist if you no longer see it as in your way.

Comparing this solo experience to the one in 2016 marks some progress in my growth as a human being.

(Writer’s Note: My first draft of this post guessed it had been three years since I wrote that post. I put in there as a placeholder. I don’t like to click around on the internet while writing. To my shock, it has been six years since this blog found its name. Crazy. What’s more, the blog is approaching six thousand subscribers, and I am grateful for each.)

Last time alone I was surprised when the experience paled in comparison to the expectation. The phenomena wasn’t as pronounced during this stretch of solitude. I saw it coming. I didn’t put it on a pedestal, as it were. I knew my days alone would be busy with responsibilities regardless. And they were.

There was, of course, a short list of things I wanted to do: go to my favorite meeting that I normally can’t attend, watch a weird movie, blast music in the house at all hours of the night. Smoke a morning tobacco pipe. Those sorts of things.

I checked those boxes. 

The movie was very weird. Have you seen The Lighthouse? If you like weird movies, you should watch it. I developed a theory that there are two types of people who like weird movies, those who like Robert Eggers and those who like Darren Aronofsky. (I’m sorry, but if you swear by David Lynch, this only means that you are old) My theory is that if you want to feel weird instead of normal, you prefer Eggers. If you think that normalcy is weird, you prefer watching Aronofsky. Whichever camp you fall in, it is way more interesting to talk with people who are interested in weird things—you are the only normal ones in my book.  

I even experimented with binge watching. Knocked out Season 2 of Stranger Things (nowhere as weird as The Lighthouse). I know I’m a bit behind. But give me a break: I’ve never truly binge-watched before. And this experiment confirmed why: it is not for me. I prefer to binge-read which probably sounds very pretentious to you. But what can I say? Binge-watching brings about shame and anxiety for me. It is probably more of an indicator of my demons than my pretentiousness. My demons tell me I should be doing things other than.

Those demons were noticeably quiet last week. They let down their guard long enough for me to watch El close the gate on the shadow monster.

I capped off my solo excursion with lunch with a friend in long term recovery.

This means that the first and last thing I did with my first long stretch of unscheduled time in three years was go drink coffee and have conversations about sobriety.

Never in my life (until I got sober) could I have imagined myself craving something so lame. But I do. The more I stay sober the more I want more of what I have. It feels good. Sure, it is not as thrilling as those impulsive benders and their surprise endings. The physical high from illicit (and increasingly legal) substances is a thrill. But the thrill is short lived. And it never made me feel good. 

People, I am here to tell you that I understand it is a wild ride to get blitzed and feel great. But feeling good just gets better and better. What’s more, in the long term, it is a far wilder journey. The greatest distance I have ever traveled—and I once climbed Mt. Sinai by moonlight—is the distance from my heart to my head. 

To say that the days of binges and sprees are over is an understatement. More than ever, I want what I have: my sobriety. I want to continue on this journey I am on. I can see clearly what led me here. I know who I am. That knowledge facilitates what I do.

If wanting what you don’t have is desire, then desiring what you do have is gratitude.

I squeezed my kids when they got home. And we stayed up late making each other laugh. I enjoy their company more than I wish for more time alone.

I consider myself a very grateful man.