The Miracle Of Slow Recovery
On Friday afternoons, my first-grade teacher, Sr. Joseph Martin, would gather all 36 of us on the carpet while she lurched back and forth in her rocking chair and would tell us about the lives of the Saints.
We would be horrified and have nightmares for weeks about the horrific deaths of St. Joan of Arc or St. Lawrence. (He is the patron saint of cooks if that gives you a clue.)
Sometimes, at recess, we would play a game called “Martyr” and stage elaborate reenactments of St. Bernadette slowly growing weaker and sicker of tuberculosis on the merry-go-round. One afternoon Sr. Joseph talked about St. Teresa of Avila and her gift of levitation while in prayer, and I heard the word “ecstasy” for the first time, and that was it for me. St. Bernadette could keep her cough.
I was ready to soar to new heights, literally. I would stop in the church after school before walking home and sit on the floor of the center aisle, looking up at the cross and begging God for the miracle of levitation. All I wanted to do was to be so good at praying that I would be lifted a few inches off the ground. Surely, I would be granted this miracle because I wanted it more than an Easy Bake Oven.
I tried, I begged, I prayed, I repeated. And nothing—no levitating. Just flat.
The last time I prayed that hard for a miracle was when I was at my wits end with the stop, start, repeat, hamster wheel of drinking. Cognitively, emotionally, and spiritually, I knew I was done with alcohol.
It was clear that my post-work wine habit was no longer serving me. But my nervous system and amygdala were much harder to convince. I had heard of people achieving spontaneous sobriety. They just decided to stop and did it. I had also heard several testimonies of divine intervention and cravings miraculously being taken away from people.
I wanted a sober life so badly.
It was the first thing I prayed about in the mornings and the last thing I prayed about before going to bed. Surely, I would be granted this miracle because I wanted it so much.
I tried, I begged, I prayed, I repeated. And spontaneous sobriety was never granted to me.
What I received instead was the miracle of Slow Recovery. Of course, I didn’t refer to it as that in the beginning.
Those first few months felt more like Agonizingly Slow Recovery With Raw Exposed Nerves, And Why The Fuck Am I Doing This?
It was painfully, excruciatingly slow.
And what I didn’t know is that was exactly what I needed. The sloth-like pace of learning how to socialize without alcohol gave me time to observe my behavior patterns and see clearly what my triggers are.
I learned, slowly, that when I consistently gave the best parts of myself and my energy to people and a job and situations where there was no reciprocity, I perpetuated my burnout and repeated old patterns of comfort. I needed the slow space to steep in the lessons I was learning and give my body and brain a beat to connect and communicate and lock it all in.
I slowly recovered my taste buds and reawakened around food and texture which led to a slow recovery of creativity and the joy of being in the kitchen. I had a slow recovery and reconnection to spiritual practices that led to the slow implementation of daily rituals and routines that support and sustain my sobriety.
The slow, safe space of cocooning and going inward and even being woefully lonely created the steady foundation that held me as I emerged with shaky confidence and started to live my sobriety in the wild.
Slow is so countercultural to the pace of our current society. But then again, so is sobriety. It makes sense that the two would go hand in hand.
The evolution of my recovery is slow as well. As I continue to excavate and brush away the dust collected in my neural pathways, new glimmers of gifts shimmer under the surface, and I commit to returning daily to the practices that lead to their reveal.
This is the miracle of Slow Recovery–that it is ongoing. That it never stops giving and illuminating and leading and moving and bringing me to my knees at the wonder of it all.
Dear one, go slow. Welcome the pace of peace and the time given to embody this sacred work of reclaiming, recovering, and renewal. Go slow because you are so worthy of time and attention. Go slow to savor the miracle of your own becoming.
I love you,
Anne Marie