Woke during the night in an icy sweat of fear, as if the wolf had come in over the kitchen threshhold and was prowling around the half-stocked grocery cupboards. Una, my loved housemate, in severe pain and needing urgent knee surgery. Will there be enough money?
A strange bird crying hoarsely in the bushes at the side of the house, too dark to see what kind of bird or why it was hiding there in the plectranthus and abelia. Cries that carried me back to my childhood in the forest above the river where otters hunted all night and the fisheagles would call to one another as the sun went down. Lying there sleepless and berating myself.
But woke up clearheaded and with renewed purpose, the gratitude that carries a recovering alcoholic through from day to day. Called three friends and had two project offers, work for February. Some money will be coming in.
Reminding myself on a morning in a quiet dark house without electricity that alcoholism is a disease of loneliness, that drinking exacerbated my tendencies to isolate and withdraw from everyone. To rejoin the real world, I have to get out there. Nothing happens, if nothing happens. Nothing changes, unless I do something to change the pattern and break with the past. Getting out there is reconnecting with myself as well as others.