By The Small Bow Family Orchestra

*****

It is a bright, hot, summer Saturday. The heat and humidity stick to your skin like an extra layer of clothing, which makes time move slower, because you move slower. Dance season is over so there’s no rush to get my oldest to dance class, so we laze around the house, eating poptarts, watching Disney movies, waiting for everyone to wake up, one by one. 

We decide it will be a pool day for the four of us, Mom, Dad, the two girls, 8 and 6-next-week. Mom and Dad can take the weekend off. We load up the swim bag, make the 5-minute drive to the pool, claim our space, and just . . . enjoy the day together. The girls dive for mermaids. Dad throws them in the water a million times. I practice handstands with them. We order fries and ice cream sandwiches from the snack bar. We stay until the pool closes, hot, tired, smelling of chlorine and sunscreen, and pick up a pizza on the drive home. We eat it in front of the TV while watching Toy Story before we even change out of our suits and crash for the night.

Life is just . . . easy that day. Smooth. Anxiety is not gripping me. I’m not concerned about how to capture this moment in a bottle. I am not obsessing over my to-do list. I don’t think once about how I look in my swimsuit. I am simply enjoying the day with the three people I love the most.

*****

My neighbor (81, permanent bachelor) is leaving his home of 50 years and moving into a faraway retirement community in February. As this situation causes me to directly confront a vision of my own future, I’ve largely been avoiding him. But then he texted and asked if he (and his imperious pomeranian) could hang out in my house for an hour while the buyers did a final walk-through of his place. I said yes, asking myself, “What kind of asshole would say no to that?” Of course, on a slightly worse day, I am precisely that kind of asshole. I had a whole plan about where he would sit, a polite distance away from where I would sit with my laptop; I even had a list of the work I would get done while he left me alone. Anyway, long story short — he stayed for 3.5 hours, we talked the entire time, and it was delightful. I learned about the 70s gay disco scene in DC (“no holes barred,” quoth he), his excitement about his new retirement community (a lounge directly outside his door!), and his opinion on the best spot in Chinatown/Gallery Place (he’s wrong, but I’m not an asshole, remember?) It was a genuine pleasure, and felt like a real sign from the universe to stay open.

*****

*****

In August, I went to France for a family holiday. We were staying with my mum and stepdad in their gorgeous house deep in the countryside: me, my brother, his wife and their two children, and my other brother and his wife. It was really hot all week. We were looking for activities to keep the kids entertained and chose the aqua park: essentially a massive inflatable obstacle course in the middle of a lake. I am decidedly not a sporty or physically adventurous person and a few years ago, when I was still drinking, I would have declined to partake in the aqua park without thinking twice about it. But this year there I was in my swimming costume and life jacket getting a very cursory health and safety briefing from a French teenager before we all got in. 

It was by some distance the most fun thing I’ve done in years. The course gets wet and slippery, and everyone falls off and lands in the lake repeatedly, and at times I was laughing so hard I couldn’t move. Towards the end of the course was a tall tower to climb up and jump into the lake from. I’m not sure quite how tall, maybe 20m or so. And even though it was mildly terrifying, I did my jump and plunged into the lake, and as soon as I came up for air, I knew I could not and would not have done it while I was still drinking. I used to have panic attacks on the stairs because I was so scared of heights then. And now I can jump into the lake from a tall tower! Amazing and exhilarating and perfect.

*****

I teared up sitting on the couch with the dog as we watched a movie on a weekend afternoon. Now, I hate all the crap you read about gratitude and how you should be grateful for every stupid thing, but . . . I felt grateful.

I felt grateful to be able to buy fancy Criterion discs and to have a TV and a 4K player and grateful not to worry about how the rent would be paid next month, just the mundane luxuries that you don't get when you're living between freelance paychecks that are never enough. And the dog, my best friend, with his little idiot body warm by my side keeping me company.

The movie was Akira Kurosawa’s “Dreams,” a beautiful and weird collection of vignettes. All his late movies are great, by the way. They’re some of my favorites. Even the one with Richard Gere that isn’t on streaming anywhere.

But I knew the dog was going to be moving away. Don’t worry, he’s fine. Just not with me. It’s sort of a co-parenting situation dog-wise. I knew he’d be leaving when we were on the couch so that dollop of preemptive grief was a bittersweet reminder to appreciate the moment. I loved the dog, I loved our little apartment, I loved what we had.

He woke up midway through the movie and got antsy and bored and started pawing at me so we went for a walk. It was one of those few precious springtime weeks in New York when everything’s green and not too warm and everyone's beaming and the church ladies said hello and it took me an awkward second to realize they were talking to us, me and the dog. Hello, what a nice day.

*****

My son, who had recently become sober was living in a sober living facility in Asheville, North Carolina. He was turning 30 and I wanted to visit him and celebrate his birthday but as he was recently sober, I was puzzled as to what to do — then I thought of the joy we experienced in his youth at Universal and Disney in Orlando. What better idea than an amusement park? We both love roller coasters and the joy that comes from new adventures. I had heard good things about Dollywood, and it was a couple of hours from Asheville. I was able to make a reservation at an on site hotel and the adventure was beginning.

The day had arrived and checking into the hotel (Heartsong Lodge) was so easy and the hotel itself was beautiful! Everything just fell beautifully into place. Spending the day at Dollywood riding roller coasters with my son was deeply meaningful. We were together, we were having fun, we talked about his childhood, a few regrets, and a few dreams for the future. Every laugh, every rush of the ride, and every quiet moment between thrills reminded me of the journey he’s taken and the strength it took to get here. The day was filled with new experiences, thrills, Halloween lights, good food, miles walked, and hands-in-the-air roller coaster screams. Being present together, fully enjoying the day, felt like a gift — not just the fun of the park, but the joy of family, shared healing, gratitude, and hope for all the days still ahead.

*****

As we sat around the backyard in our rental house in August, I was reminded of how life can suck, but then not. We were visiting our daughter and her friends, all of whom have been in recovery for 3 or more years. We do not live in the Midwest and had not seen on the daily the life she had made for herself. It was humbling and gratifying all at once. A lost child had found their way, all without us managing any of it. Talk about being proud! But I was also proud of myself for getting out of her way, for getting myself into a recovery program and seeing how my whole family had grown as individuals and as a unit. It brought me peace and serenity that day.

*****

It’s been a series of them this fall — my son left for college and I could brag on a million things about him — but I have been proudest of how well he knows himself and how the choices he’s made have been true to that. I am grateful every day that he has never seen me take a drink, but I’m even more thankful that I have raised someone who knows he’s ok exactly as he is. He texted one day that he was in class and, “today our professor asked if we liked our moms, and my hand shot up and I talked about why I like mine — how you’ve both distilled really good values into me but have allowed me to be myself and figure out what I like completely and don’t like and always being supportive. Don’t let it go to your head.” Best day and best text ever 😭. Breaking the cycle of alcoholism is life and death but breaking the cycle of disappointed and judgmental parenting is what makes the life part beautiful. 

*****

I feel about my grandma the way I guess many people feel about their parents. She was a child psychologist and worked early intervention (little little kids) and she still sparkles with childhood at 91. I think about her every day. I want to be like her when I grow up, which I guess I kind of am, as a psych nurse practitioner who everyone says is just like a “younger version of her grandmother.”

We share many hobbies (jigsaw puzzles, baking, murder mysteries), a love for cute sweet things (a little hedgehog carving, a tiny plush bird, a miniature wind chime), a propensity for chat (never a conversation for less than an hour ranging all things), and I feel a terrifying, precipitous hole when I think of her (obvious, inevitable, eventual) death. She’s doing well but not getting any younger, and every time I see her she pointedly reminds me that she’s going to die, and that’s ok, and it has to be, it’s just what’s going to happen and it’s ok and she wants me to know that.

We live far apart, so I see her on holidays and vacations we take together. On this trip, our lunch turned into a 5-hour hangout that only ended when I saw her off to dinner with some wonderful friends, who all asked me to join them. It was simple bliss, sitting in her living room eating sandwiches and chatting family drama and relationships and whose experiences led to which patterns. Nothing terribly profound, just like noticing a particularly nice leaf on a particularly bright blue autumn day.

*****

*****

Last year, my life blew up, right before Thanksgiving. I spent most of the holiday season crying, and all my gifts were money from family that would go towards a future divorce attorney. I tried to remember that every future holiday season wouldn't be this painful. I prayed this would be as bad as it ever got.

This year, I accompanied my nephews on a nine-hour train ride. We started out walking in the snow from their house and caught the train to NY Penn Station, then took The Vermonter all the way to White River Junction. Unlike last year, I can actually enjoy the boys, instead of staring at them and weeping like a creep. They’re 13, they're so sincere, and I cannot believe that they actually love me.

At Penn Station, we dance to “Last Christmas” and “All I Want for Christmas” while they eat breakfast burritos the size of their heads. We can get away with this because we're the only ones in the restaurant. One of them tells me this is the most fun they ever had getting somewhere. I smile and say thanks, try not to make a big deal out of it, and go buy him some Dramamine, since I know he still gets motion sickness.

On the train, we find a set of four seats all facing each other in the quiet car. They watch Family Guy and King of the Hill episodes in their iPhones and wear noise cancelling headphones covered in pride stickers. They tell me who they are from time to time, using various cultural identifiers that I’m not really familiar with, and I believe them.

Later on this Christmas season, on Christmas day and the days after, I will still feel like the freak in my family, like I did last year: the divorced one, the one without kids, the poor one. But I’m grateful for the passage of time, for the slow, unpredictable metabolization of trauma to proper grief, as awful as it all is.

I’m grateful for a day like this. There is nothing like a proper good day in the middle of a shit storm to keep you going. 

*****

I share this because I love talking about myself! I want to tell about all the struggles, how I am rising out of the ashes, how I was wise enough to put down booze years ago on my terms, the many adventures I had and how that all galvanized the strength in me, and how tough I got lonering.

A couple of days ago, I cancelled on climbing plans with a group at the last minute despite fantastic winter conditions in Appalachia and a desire to be outside. I wrote, I read after walking through neighborhoods to view the sunrise on the winter solstice morning.

A friend called and we had some time together in the afternoon. I listened to her and her struggles a while before I shared anything about myself, and then we had organic conversation about worldly concerns centered around what she was hurting to let go of. I could easily relate.

The best day followed. It was a tough day that finally brought me to tears. I didn’t even think to use or smoke my way out of the feelings. I cried, did some bookwork, ate a sensible meal, did some outdoor yard work, attended men’s group, volunteered to lead, and created a soft, grounded container with help from present brothers. I shared genuinely and succinctly when it was my turn. In the end, I felt good about what I’ve become. That appeared in meditation this morning, feeling good and grateful with a glowing heart and body born of compassion for others and myself.

*****

My Best Day Ever happened just a few days ago, when I took myself on a date to see Porgy & Bess at the Met. Back when I was drinking, I had my performance routine down to a science: a glass or two of wine at home, a vodka martini at the bar across the street before curtain, and then right as intermission began, I’d call ahead to order another martini so it would be waiting for me (with fries, extra crispy).

In the days leading up to the performance, I felt a sudden wave of dread. How would I enjoy the opera without my martini ritual? Had I already seen this production and simply forgotten it due to drunken haze? And was it a good or a bad thing that I was doing this alone?

I’m still young in dry days — 238 as of today — and everything feels new and strange. Some of it is liberating (long haul flights without a hangover, hell yes), but much of it feels quieter, less luminous. I hoped that Gershwin at the Met would cut through that. The music carries me back to being a teenager, blasting Porgy and Bess on CD and belting “Summertime” out the third-floor window of my family’s home.

So my trepidation softened, and instead of swallowing vodka beforehand, I treated myself to a single slice and arrived at my seat on time. What followed is hard to describe. I was washed over with emotion. The staging, the casting, the orchestration — it all felt astonishingly bright. Even when a row of women behind me whispered and commented quietly throughout the performance, I didn’t lose my cool or shush them angrily. I chalked it up to an enhanced, more authentic experience. I left the theater walking on air. Summertime an’ the livin’ is easy . . .

As I reached Broadway, a mitzvah truck was parked outside blaring Klezmer-techno, Yeshiva boys dancing around an electrified Menorah wishing passersby a happy Hanukkah. In that moment, I knew the light would never go out. 

*****

“This year kicked my fucking ass. Like, it was truly horrible in about every way a year can be. But in my notes app, I found this sentence…”

Today, I was driving with [my dog] and “Cruisin’” by D’Angelo came on and everything felt perfect. 

Written in the midst of some life-defining traumatic bullshit, I was driving with my dog, and she had her head out the open window, sniffing the cool fall air, and everything felt perfect for 6 minutes and 41 seconds.

*****

I returned from a stressful two-week international trip to an early morning meeting with my boss wherein I was laid off before my email out of office message was even turned off. It was not shocking but it was devastating. Most of the remainder of the day was spent sobbing and trying to apply for unemployment (its own emotional rollercoaster); do I go to the concert tonight if I’m feeling like this? I had a ticket for Godspeed You! Black Emperor that evening and I rarely miss them when they are touring my town. Somehow, I gathered up every ounce of courage and pulled myself together to go. I made a beeline for a dark corner of the venue and the tears began to stream down my face. I didn’t care. For the next few hours I listened to my favorite band and cried for thousands of feelings coming through. The music forced out my pain until it no longer consumed me for a brief moment. Hellscapes redeemed by art: my best day of 2025. 

*****

fin