I have two friends who always remind me to look for the miracles. When my thoughts are racy, it can’t be heard. I’m just now reading Marsha Sinetar’s 2000 book “Sometimes Enough is Enough” and early on she talks about aligning our thoughts with God’s thoughts. (Always, dear friends, when I say God I mean, as I understand God and by implication, as you understand a power greater than yourself.) Whoa! Where did that come from? The layers of revelation are infinite re being human. When I was 254 pounds, my first recovery work was about the physical. And that has to be sustained, all the basics of eating right and taking care of my body as priority. But the bigger issue has been to get out of my head into my body. Now that I am doing that–by slowing down, connecting with my senses, breathing–I’ve had this revelation about thoughts. They too must be aligned with the greater good. Escaping into obsession, rumination and racy thoughts is not necessary, desirable, or even, frankly, natural.

Twenty-five years ago I committed to this recovery. I didn’t want to be fat. I didn’t want to have food as my highest power. I wanted my life’s richness to be about relationships, service and experience, not about where the next pastry was coming from, or how I was going to sustain my health with all the conditions related to obesity. The more I dedicate time and effort to staying in conscious contact with my higher power, the more I need to do that. The more I am called to that. And the greater the rewards–of humilty, serenity and Good Orderly Direction.

I’m off to some retreat time in the woods of upstate New York. I’ll probably be spending a lot of time building fires and huddling near the woodstove. And aligning my thoughts with God’s thoughts. Higher Power wants us to be happy, joyous and free. It’s a gift, but one we have to claim by clearing the channel–losing the destructive behaviors–and listening with our bodies and minds. Slowing down, making dedicated time for connecting. It’s not just important to me, it’s central, primary, core, vital, essential, life-sustaining.

It has amazed me over the years to see that as I released the hurt from the past, the joys returned as well. Somewhere in there, too, forgiveness. As my vision opens, it’s so incredible to me that nothing is as I thought it would be or should be. Or rather, I’m amazed that I ever thought I knew how the world and the people in it would behave, or how my inner and outer life would unfold.

I’ve always loved reading mountain climber stories, though I’m not an athlete nor an adventurer. I think I know why I never get tired of those stories. Because the work of recovery, and living sober, is an inner mountain climb. We just keep trudging along. Thank God there are guides and ropes and beautiful scenery. There are also bumps and bruises, betrayals and disappointments. But we just keep going.

On 9/12/01, on my way home from NYC on the train, I was reading a beautiful little memoir, First You Shave Your Head, by Gerry Larkin. She is a Buddhist monk and was traveling in Korea with her teacher and another woman, also a monk. Her trip was incredibly rigorous. As my commuter train pulled through the tunnel back to New Jersey, with tears streaming down, I read the passage of the book where she realizes everything always comes down to “just this.” Presence in the moment. Sometimes it’s about grinding out a day. Sometimes it’s about just letting myself be. And the this isn’t whatever’s happening or whoever’s there. “This” is not the drama, nor the comfort nor the confusion nor the joy. It’s just “this.” The moment. I’m discovering that under all the background noise and foreground mayhem, there is a well of deep silence. That, to me, is the “this.”

A young new friend was astonished to learn that even after nearly 16 years of back-to-back abstinence from sugar, flour and wheat, I still have fear. I know where she’s coming from. When we are hurting so bad, we so want to believe that if we just get a few things right, we won’t hurt so bad. And life does get better, much better. But we don’t achieve perfection. Recovery doesn’t guarantee me anything but the opportunity to live real. For today, I can feel God’s love whenever I pause and ask to feel it. That too is the “this.” So as my vision widens, I see and feel more that  is sad and hurtful, I’m also able to feel more serenity and certainty that the only sure thing is “just this.”   Breathing in, breathing out, just this.