No Pink Roses Please

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Last year we were all together celebrating both matriarchs over wiener schnitzel and soft pretzels at a German Restaurant on a stretch of Coney Island Avenue with zero ambience. I was enjoying the eye candy: my sons in blazers and button down shirts. This year, my parents weren’t up for the drive down to the city. My brother, divorced like me, had a date. So it was just a low-key party of three: my two boys and me.

Every year, like Ebenezer Scrooge, I am visited by the ghosts of Mother’s Days past... two-parent family dinners at the same Jersey Shore restaurant with she-crab bisque and a carnation for every mom.  Every year, I grope for the exit sign in that dark theater of my mind, where these home movies loop... Spirit! Remove me from this place! I cry, which is silly, because no recollections are all bad that include toddlers sucking up oversized plates of spaghetti with butter.  This year, I wanted it to be low-key and hassle free, just us three, mostly present for one another, on that second Sunday in May—no hauntings from diaper days, and no dread of Mother’s Days Yet to Come...

No pink roses please, I told my sons, in the week leading up. And no stuffed bears, kittens or monkeys. (I never turn down chocolate). Then I presented my own Mother’s Day card: The only thing I want this Mother’s Day is your FULL cooperation. We do what I want to do, without complaint. That’s the best thing you can give me.

Sunday morning was a soaker, and I didn’t have the family car. My ex and I still share the KIA. We didn’t see the point of parking two cars on city streets when we were together, and we still don’t, apart. The arrangement works. Except that day. C’mon, we’re going to church, I said, hunting for three working umbrellas. It’s Mother’s Day, let’s go! I was on duty for coffee hour set-up, for which I’d baked blackberry scones that looked better than they tasted. I’d also promised to loan my righteous lemon juicer to the Sunday School teacher for the annual lemonade stand to raise money for some good cause, I couldn’t remember which. 

May is the month of Mary in the Episcopal calendar. We process, sing Marian hymns, and reflect on the humility and sacrifice of the mother of Jesus, who, after her son’s death, became— by symbolic extension—mom to us all, there to intercede for us in troubles great and small, if only we remember to ask. I get that this is not for everyone. The incense, the liturgy, the kneeling to a marble madonna with a pleasingly ovoid face.

Even for me, now that I’m past the six inch mark on life’s twelve-inch ruler, there’s more to this than praying the Angelus at the Shrine to our Lady. --d has evolved into a nebulous, loving prankster, always in my business, conspiring for my good. Still, I enjoy putting a feminine face on it during this fifth month of the year, when the cherry blossoms are showing off, and the sycamore are leafing out in shocks of spring green.

I also like this  verb: to intercede. It feels strong and female—like when I yank my teen off his kid brother, pinned to the LEGO board on the bedroom floor. My mom job is to intercede, to foster the dialogue that allows for reconciliation and restores harmony.  And I intercede to prevent another tooth from getting knocked out under my watch.

My job is not to incite turmoil, but that’s where we were headed Mother’s Day morning, as William moved from dining table to window sill, and gazed out upon April showers offering yet another encore performance. Mush mush, I prodded my sleepy sled dog. He complained of leg stiffness, following our 5K the day before, benefitting Brooklyn public schools. The elder was still abed at 9:30. It didn’t look good. I’d already let the church thing slide since William had graduated from Sunday School and Theodore had started digging in his dress shoes against serving on the communion altar. I’d pretty much freed up their Sunday mornings to go back to bed and snuggle into their new identities as Christmas/Easter Christians. And forget about confirmation. Theo had exercised his right to reject this rite of passage.  So aside from these two biggies, Xmas and Easter, and oh yes St. Francis Day, when we present our lizard for blessing, I was prepared to forego the church house indefinitely. 

Bottom line: I didn’t want to ruin this for them. This spiritual thing. This feeling in the dark and grabbing onto the hem of G-d.  This is the fun part, the game of hide and seek with faith. I didn’t want to make it about Sunday morning struggle. Besides, I figured, Theodore wouldn’t be the first Anglican teen to swear off church, only to return to witness holy water dripped over his own newborn’s startled neck. And actually, what first drew me to St. Paul’s, was that they weren’t a pushy parish. Just red doors thrown open on Saturday afternoons, beckoning believers and nonbelievers alike, to light a sooty candle and sit in a butt-numbing pew. No one approached me; no brochures to lure lost sheep. I was in my turbulent twenties, and this soft sell was just right.

It was a little weird sitting alone in the third pew this Mother’s Day. But my church family was discreet. No one asked after the errant altar boy or his little brother, who usually sat beside me,  building skyscrapers from kneelers. Two sets of jubilant parents presented two girl candidates for baptism. One dad wore a pink blazer (Amen). Wet heads and wet eyes, I teared up as we, adult congregants, renewed our own baptismal covenants. Past, present and future came together in this christening: my own babies, these babies here, and my sons’ babies (if the spirit so moves Theo and Will to someday return to the old fold).

Homeward bound after mass, I texted Theodore from the train to wrangle his brother and meet me at the new Indian restaurant, also on that same, not-scenic stretch of Coney Island Avenue with auto body shops and drive-through KFC. The place was empty. I got us the table next to the tropical fish tank. The boys showed up drenched, with one umbrella between them. The waiter served up a space heater, along with mango lassis, and we dried out while enjoying startlingly delicious mixed tandori. How a star-rated Michelin chef came to be in the kitchen, behind the fish tank, in an Indian restaurant, on a treeless strip of Coney Island Avenue in Midwood, Brooklyn, is a blessed mystery...

It continued to rain like the tears of a mother all the way home, and well into the evening. For my pleasure, but also because the June recital was imminent, the boys briefly visited the piano keys. We struck some sweet chords when Theo worked through a few bars of Satie’s warm washcloth of a masterpiece, Gymnopedie. Then we lost him to CSGo gaming and his brotherhood of the headset, who’d also, apparently, ditched their own moms by then.

I packed lunch for Monday from leftover chicken tikka, while William watched yet another Pokémon (episode #627). Brushing my teeth, William remembered the card in his backpack and burst into the bathroom. Theodore had forgotten to sign it, but he did fund and oversee the card’s purchase, at Leo’s Discount, across the street from Jalsa Grill & Gravy Indian Cuisine.

My gift to my sons this Mother’s Day was an acknowledgement of their growing autonomy,  increasing along with their appetites and shoe sizes. I gave them time to spend by themselves, on a day that dictates they be with me.  A mother’s sacrifice indeed! I gave them licence to blow off a faith community that had followed them since they were held high over Father Cullen’s head, and welcomed into the collective heart of  G-d.

On this Sunday, like most others, I streamed WKCR, Columbia University Radio. George Jones, as it turns out, had the last word on that soggy, superb Mother’s Day:  Going Life’s Way 

Flow, Flow, Here I Go!

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In response to my latest for The Fix, where I recount some recent slip-ups that showcase sloppy sobriety, and which required some mopping up, one reader commented: “Be a Buddhist monk like me. It's easier.” Not sure he was serious in his suggestion, nor in his own claim to enlightenment, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a good idea, to get more grounded and get around some of the unmanageability of the first half of this year. I’m all-in to up my practice this summer!

Except meditation often eludes me. Outbursts are my family tradition, not OM. So far, sessions have been short-lived, my focus fragile. “I’m just not good at meditation...” I once copped to my then sponsor Lisa M. “That’s just your alcoholism talking,” she shot back. She didn’t give me a pass on meditation, but she did give me permission to be lousy at it. “Just do it, don’t judge it.”

And whenever I do manage a few mindful minutes, I enjoy this:

  • Less babbling

  • Less breaking s$%*

  • Less mindless munching

  • Less spilling my lunch on my lap

  • Less creeping ex-flames on IG

  • Less texting at red lights

  • Less shouting at sons

So I keep at it.

My goal is a full hour in full lotus, but I’m in no rush. Here’s what helps me poke along my monkish migration towards Nirvana...

Free Yoga on the Internet

Child’s pose is not child’s play. I’m a reluctant yogi. Still, 

I start some days with Kassandra: (Yoga with Kassandra)

And a friend ends hers with Sara Beth: (Bedtime Yoga Stretch)

Both are growing on me. Ten minutes of threading the needle, followed by a good rag doll hang for those hamstrings, and I’m limbered up, connected to my breathing, and have “Set my intention for the rest of the day.” Namaste.

Choices

Just because there’s coffee left in the carafe, doesn’t mean I have to pour it over ice and down it right then. It’s pretty much impossible to meditate in espresso mode; those thoughts percolate faster than I can dismiss them, and each one is “oh shit” urgent.

What A.A. Has to Say on The Subject

“...in meditation, debate has no place.” The words from chapter eleven in Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions echo my sponsor’s: “Just do it. Don’t judge it.” It offers up the overtly Christian St. Francis prayer as a guided meditation, with this disclaimer: “We won’t be biased or scared off by that fact, because although he was not an alcoholic he did, like us, go through the emotional wringer. And as he came out the other side of that painful experience, this prayer was his expression of what he could then see, feel, and wish to become.” I do wish to become more selfless, like animal-loving, locust-eating St. Francis, and in its turn of poetic device, this devotion is quite the lyrical tool for contemplation. With extensive prompts from my eleven-year-old, I’ve committed it to memory, and regularly chew on it. Along with written inventory, it works wonders on those stubborn resentments.

Set the Scene

Mood matters. To “increase my conscious contact with God”, as well as with the present moment, I’ve set up a small home shrine to settle me in: a brass meditation bowl with velvet-tipped hammer, twin bamboo plants I took in when my sponsor moved cross country, an essential oil diffuser, stick incense in sand, and a fat pillow.

I arrange myself on the floor any damn way I please that my tricky knee tolerates. I don’t judge that either, my asymmetrical squat. I’m comfortable. Sort of. I open my laptop or grab my phone and choose:

Guided Meditations and Meditation Apps

Calm has a lot I’ll never explore. I find the guiding narration sticky and condescending, but I do like thumbing through the pretty backgrounds (except rain hitting leaves, that one makes me pee my mat). The timed meditation feature is nifty too. I get to control how long I follow air flowing from my nostrils to my fallopian tubes. Twenty minutes, ten or two… Sixty seconds is better than nothing. Whose judging? I manage to do at least this daily. And I appreciate that 10:30PM screen flash, my nightly nudge to go the hell to sleep: “Your calm mind is the ultimate weapon against your challenges!” (Strike Warrior 2)

Tara Brach’s voice, on the other cupped hand, doesn’t make my skin crawl in my yoga pants. I can hold space for her, especially for her under twenty minute talks, like the one on self-compassion (or being-easy-on myself-when-my-kids-are-not). She sure helps me keep showing up for this single-parenting gig with more gratitude, and more laughter than lectures...

And I just love tough-talking Ṭhānissaro Bhikkhu of dhammatalks. I often bookend my day with one of his two minute morning meditations and a ten minute tuck-in talk. He helps me keep showing up for meditation, by reminding me that my mind reigned in, is better for me and for everyone within my physical and virtual reach.

The Natural Connection

Sometimes I just stop and stare at the American Linden across the street from my building. I take in its storybook perfection, its dense, lollipop-shape, and thirty-seven shades of green. At night, I watch the way a breeze tickles at its leaves, while the streetlight plays off its under surfaces...  

I also have the good fortune of an occasional run along back-country roads, where conscious, clean-air breathing comes easy. This past Memorial Weekend I experienced that smell of wet hay in May....

Now how this petites madeleines-moment helps foster meditation and recovery, well, does this need explaining?

5 Messes I've Had to Clean Up in Recovery

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The Fix is a website covering all things addiction and recovery. It’s a great resource for the addict, offering breaking news, exclusive interviews, investigative reports and blogs on sober living and lifestyle. Go here to gape at some unsober spills I’ve made in the first half of the year, how I’ve mopped them up, and my strategy to be less emotionally sloppy in the second half of 2019. Thanks for the read!

Not Just For Sober Moms...

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That Gratitude List

From almost the start, when I poured that last screwdriver down the sink, I’ve had this three-way tie for first place on my nightly gratitude list: HP— my sobriety—my sons.

All three, neck-in-neck as they cross that finish line: my beating heart.

Everything else—my health, my job, my home, the new Carvel on the corner—falls into place below, in no special order. I’m grateful for them ALL, but it’s this inseparable trio at the top, a loving G-d as I define G-d, my temperance for today, and my two male adolescents, that I claim most dear. For this three-in-one holy trinity, holding hands around my life today, I thank my lucky stars, stars that twinkle high above city lights, often unseen, but always there…

However, since last summer, there’s more to this nightly accounting of my blessings. In bed, as I note my appreciation of the three frontrunners, I also now acknowledge their tenuous nature, and in doing so, value them even more. Something scary happened last July that sank down deep into the stretched-skin of my mommy belly: Holy  s---, this sobriety thing is NOT a given.  I realized I could lose all three: my faith could fail me, I could pick up, and… (no sorry, can’t go there, I refuse to picture a kid getting hurt, not mine nor anyone else’s).

The Family Reunion
It wasn’t the kind of family reunion with monogrammed Oriental Trading ball caps, and fifth cousins flown in from far corners. Just the immediate family, and cousin Nancy from Missouri, gathered for the fourth, on the family “farm”, a former dairy, where livestock had been replaced with wildlife. Herds of deer, and wild turkey now roamed Four Fields Farm in exurbia New York. Due to a chlorine-resistant algae bloom, the pool wasn’t even open.

“A Family Disease?”

While I don’t point fingers, and respect that alcoholism is a self-diagnosed disease, I have sometimes wondered about the drinking habits of those ancestors dangling from my paternal branch. Great Uncle Gray, the family acknowledges, was the town drunk of Coleman, Texas. My biological grandfather, Howard, was his running buddy, though no one has ever labeled my granddad an alcoholic too.  I’ve had my doubts about Gray’s sister though, my beloved, eccentric Great Aunt Honey, (nee Vivian), a former beauty queen with a penchant for leopard print, a framed portrait of her Pekinese, and strange curios from trips to Mexico with her heavy-drinking lover Frank. I don’t ever remember visiting Honey when she was not in her brass bed, propped with pillows, her red wig askew, animated, eating coconut cake. Was that coffee she drank or something else? I really don’t remember. But pictures don’t lie. I cherish a polaroid of her, in a lawn chair, with shades and red lipstick, and a tallboy resting on crossed knees above showgirl legs. The jury’s out on Great Aunt Honey.

But really, I don’t have to go farther up the family tree than the next leaf on my own branchlet, to find genetic evidence that alcoholism runs in the family. My brother, approaching 33 years of continuous sobriety is—on a cellular level—the closest person on the planet to me, and he, like me, is powerless over alcohol. My sober sibling had been proof enough for me.

The Fireworks Get out of Hand

Until two days after Independence Day, 2018, that was. Walking the gravel path from house to road with my beautiful cousin, a vision in flowing linen and towering six inches above me, fields of ripening hay for fodder on either side of us, I broke my anonymity: “I don’t drink you know.” “Oh,” she replied, “I guess I didn’t know that.” She was surprised. Everyone is. I don’t fit their profile. Whatever that is, it’s not a middle-aged mom who car pools kids to chess tournaments. Then she added: “There have been times when I drank a little more heavily… when I was going through stuff… But I don’t drink much now.”

And that’s all it took to flambe the low flame under my denial and reignite DOUBT.

Was it really that bad, I asked myself. Maybe I was just going through stuff too…I mean, everyone hits those keg parties hard in college, that’s normal... And after graduation, when I spent my entire twenties producing a low-budget feature film flop, I reasoned: Hell, a decade of indy filmmaking would drive anyone to drink! Everyone blacks out at post-screening parties and does stupid shit. Maybe, if I’d just let my drinking run its course I would have—like Cousin Nancy—gotten to the point where I was bored with bottom shelf whiskey and bad chianti with screw top caps. I would have gotten fed up fanangling illicit refills of prescription muscle relaxantsMaybe I’d beat the odds, learn to moderate, and wind up pretty much be where I am today, with the blessed life I have.”

Of course the sober, grounded me knows that my drinking is not conditional; it’s not based on stuff going on in my life, not the low times nor the high.  I know this. I know that I’ve got a life-threatening disease that’s arrested one-day-at-a-time, and is contingent upon my fit spiritual condition. This is my truth. But in that moment, I forgot it all. I forgot the scary. Like the scary, and deeply sad boyfriend from Lawrence, Kansas, a pale rail who, at 6’6”, ducked when he boarded subway cars and subsisted on quarts of Budweiser and Winston Gold. (He’s gone now, that sad, scary boyfriend.)  Or the scary scrapes I’d survived, like staggering home alone, over the Brooklyn Bridge, at 3AM, a young woman in a red halter dress, heels in hand, because I couldn’t find a friend to join me in my mid-week drinking adventure. Because I’d spent the 20 bucks that I’d stashed in my bra for cab fare home, on whiskey sours instead. In this magical moment approaching dusk with Cousin Nancy, her smile as wide as a Texas sky, I completely forgot that, when I crossed that bridge from Manhattan to Brooklyn, I crossed another line, or as it’s described in Alcoholics Anonymous, Chapter 2: “There is a Solution”:  I “lost the power of choice in drink.”

I continued to rationalize: That was 30 years ago; it’s all water under the bridge now. Then this fart bubble of an idea popped to mind,  as dumb as adding “an ounce of whiskey in my milk”: Why can’t I enjoy one scotch on the patio with Cousin Nancy and Dad this evening? You know, rock back, reminisce and tinkle my ice cubes in a tumbler with “N” for our surname, etched on its surface…. To hell with the swimming pool, now THIS is a family reunion!  

In the first paragraph of Chapter 3: “More About Alcoholism” I have the following lines double highlighted in yellow and pink, then also underlined:  “The idea that somehow, someday he will control and enjoy his drinking is the great obsession of every abnormal drinker The persistence of this illusion is astonishing. Many pursue it into the gates of insanity or death.” Oh and illusion” is also circled.

There Is A Solution in the Onion Fields

The fields of hay shimmered in the mid-summer summer light. It was a Kodak moment, yet I felt unsafe. So what did I do in this moment when the bottom of my sobriety fell out? When my phone and my brother were back at the house, and I couldn’t reach my sponsor or any sober gal pal? Thankfully, I remembered what Lisa M., the sponsor who’d led me through this close reading of the Big Book told me early on: “Start cultivating your relationship with your Higher Power Maria. People aren’t always available, but G-d is.”  So I prayed to HP, actually first I cursed at G--d. Then I prayed for the urge to drink to pass. It wasn’t passing fast enough. I prayed to remember that I was an alcoholic who couldn’t drink safely. And I prayed to tolerate the discomfort until it passed.

Frankly I felt HP’s response was inadequate, given the circumstances.  But then another thought followed. This one felt G-d-inspired, and smelled better.  Oh that’s right, I’m going to a meeting tonight. Another sound suggestion from Lisa M. had been this: find a second home group when you’re away, visiting your second home. For me, it’s my parents’ house in the township of Warwick. They know me as the “holiday gal”, because I’m up there with my sons over most school holidays. Feels good to get to meetings up there, and to bump into friends of Bill in the village post office or coffee shop. Feels good, away from home, to still feel connected.

And this was just enough. I had a sober plan: to go to a meeting where I could spill. In ninety minutes I’d be sitting in the second seat of the second row of folding chairs, between ball caps and boots, in the spic-in-span basement of St. Stanislaus Church in Pine Island, New York, sipping percolator coffee, and nibbling an Oreo. In this white clapboard church surrounded by black dirt onion fields,  the feelings would continue to pass through. Sooner or later the discomfort would lift. I had faith in this. A problem shared is a problem halved…

Mother’s Day, 2019

On the eve of another sober Mother’s Day, it’s still a photo finish for first place on my praise list: My Higher Power/My Sobriety/My Sons. But on that Friday night last July, the dark horse was that little Polish church that housed a Group Of Drunks. Those alcoholics listened to me and nodded in identification. I enjoyed my first deep breath in hours. I felt safe from that first drink, and all urge to jay walk or put my hand on a hot stove.

Soon after she returned home to Missouri, cousin Nancy was diagnosed with lung cancer. She passed over the winter holidays. The family was stunned, but Nancy flashed that smile to the end, and her own two sons rose to the occasion magnificently.

These final memories with my first cousin are on my list tonight too, those hours spent sitting poolside, laughing at the stagnant scene, and sipping my mother’s glorious sun tea, that quenches like nothing else.

Happy Mother’s Day!




The Lizard is Lost

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“Never say no.” That’s one of those strongly suggested A.A. suggestions. When someone in the program asks you to speak, or to set up, or to sweep up, you just show up, and do service. You just do.

Truth is though, I haven’t answered all calls for help, like the one to serve on the Bill W. Dinner planning committee, a full twelve-month commitment. Maybe next year. But I’ve never said no to a newcomer (not a female one). I’ve bought into this suggestion because it works. I’m still sober five and a half years later and I’m mostly happy and sober.

So when I got home from work last Wednesday and dropped my lunch pail, I was excited to leaf through my closet and start pulling together an outfit for an outgoing speaking commitment I’d accepted months earlier, across Brooklyn in Bed-Stuy.  (Confession: I’m still preoccupied with what I wear in meetings, and what you’ve got on too. I say the 7th step prayer over my fixation on your footwear, which is either judgmental or covetous.)

I’d asked my friend Peter to chauffeur me in his Subaru Crosstrek with the heavenly suspension and new-car smell. And because I’ve always known Peter to also take this most strongly suggested A.A. suggestion, he didn’t say no. He’d agreed to be at my doorstep at 7:40pm. Plenty of time to get dressed, feed and exercise the pet lizard, and go.

I  scattered six crickets on my yoga mat and watched our Australian Bearded Dragon scamper in pursuit. (A small reptile seemed a sober pet choice in a working single-parent home). I hate cages: big, small, literal, figurative, not for people, and not for pets. I’ve always had an open door policy for my parakeets (and bird shat everywhere). And that’s why I left Scamp unattended on the living room yoga mat, free to digest, roam, and stretch his tail, while I changed.

But then he went missing. And I was still in my robe when I realized it.

My productivity in searching for lost things has always been inversely proportional to my anxiety level. I looked behind the bookcase, bureau, and the piano. No luck. I started to throw sofa pillows, and look in unlikely places: the freezer and the toilet. After forty minutes of rising panic with no results, I realized three things: ONE: how much I loved that little guy, TWO: how filthy my apartment was, and THREE: Peter would be here in ten minutes.

I thought to cancel, but then I thought, people are counting on me. I chair a meeting myself, so I know that jab of disappointment you feel when your speaker doesn’t show, that is, before you pivot into acceptance and ask that first warm body who walks in to speak. This family emergency would have to go on ice until I returned home.

But I hate leaving home with unfinished business as much as I hate cages. I’ve made myself late for appointments over dishes in the sink. It’s a fear thing, an unwillingness to accept that—as an old sponsor Lisa M. often reminded me—“Life is messy.” and I’m not in charge of straightening it all out. “Everything that’s supposed to get done today will get done...” she’d coo. Only now, with a few twenty-fours attached to my first name and last initial, I’m starting to buy in.  When I’m willing to acknowledge the sloppy around me—and inside me—I can relax just enough to do the next right thing.  In this case,  I reminded myself of my primary purpose: stay sober and help another alcoholic. So I pulled up my moto biker pants, left the free-range lizard at large, and hopped into Peter’s passenger seat with the wrong shoes and one earring.  

Driving over, I listened to—and heard—Peter, as he updated me on health and family. I was almost okay when we parked. Then I got out and stepped on a dead rat. BAD OMEN. I imagined our poor pet turning up months later, like a foul Easter egg on July Fourth, in a crawl space behind the FIOS box.

Somehow I found my sober feet. The air was almost fresh from a spring shower, as we approached Our Lady of Victory Church, with its Rapunzel tower rising, and an opulent magnolia, shedding it’s blossoms underfoot...

When I got home I was in a better headspace to resume the hunt. I prayed for direction and got it: Use a flashlight. Given that every apex predator in Australia lunches on these lizards, Beardies have evolved to be masters of camouflage. I got on my knees again, behind the piano, under the trundle bed, this time reaching deep into corners with focused light.  So far though, no tell-tale tail. I prayed for more direction and got it: Where is the most logical place he could be?

Then I remembered my eleven-year-old remarking that, after a good worm supper, Scamp liked to shimmy up under the china hutch and pass out. In my frantic, pre-meeting mode, I did give the china cabinet a cursory look. But now I went back with a slow pan of the searchlight. And wouldn’t you know that lil rascal had scooted himself right up into the corner, fast asleep, snug in a tangled nest of my  hair?

Hard to see much of anything when I forget the flashlight of universal love always available to me, and am caught, instead, in the floodlights of fear...

So once again, I was glad  I’d said “yes” instead of “no”. But honestly, if the lizard hadn’t turned up, if I’d returned home to tragedy, instead of this cute ending to a very long day, wouldn’t I still have been better fortified to deal with such a loss after having gone to a meeting?