Home Base

Many who know me, know me as a scotch man. Never less than 12 years old, and always a single malt (as opposed to a blend) if humanly possible. A lovely, golden shot of scotch, neat, with an IPA chaser, sitting in the garden next to the crackling firebox, the fountain in the garden pool gurgling, just as the sun sinks past the far horizon – a little slice of heaven. Central to my sense of self and my general spiritual well-being.

And then I realized (for reasons of HIPAA, not AA, I might add) I had to quit drinking altogether. Who the hell am I, again?

Which begs the question, where does one gather their sense of self? Harkening back to my most recent post, that gathering had better not be entirely external and had better not fixate too heavily on any one thing, within you or without you. Everything in life shifts; everything one loves will change. Knock on wood or whatever, but my life is so rich - family, art, books, movies, friends, puppies - the loss of alcohol, which admittedly had stopped making feel in anyway good (HIPAA again), has been little more than a mild annoyance.

Perhaps it is the very little mental trick of accepting the richness life without the distraction of things that are not there that is the key to contentment. Accomplish that and one may experience joy even when cradled in Satan’s bosom, hellfire blasting all about, hot coals throbbing in your head while the cheap ass team on the field lucks out again. Maybe, but probably not. I see I have again digressed …