The Gift of Peace

It is Memorial Day weekend in the United States. Instead of marking the day for what it was meant for, honoring men and women who died while serving in the military, the vast majority of Americans see it as the official start of the summer season. A time to take out their boats and other watercraft, bask in the sunshine, barbecue, and of course, drink.

This year, while parties are banned, my social media feeds tell me people will still be keeping the tradition of overindulgence alive.

I say this not to judge, as I myself was the queen of overindulgence for decades of my life. In fact, I remember the ONE Memorial Day where I was on a break from alcohol. I embarked on a home house painting project to keep myself busy and all I could think about was the “fun” I was “missing out” on because I wasn’t joining the party.

Overindulging. Obsessing. The fear of missing out. I’m so grateful that I’m done with it all.

And the gift that replaced it all was something only available to me after I embraced a life of sobriety. The gift of peace.

I say this because alcohol is the thief of peace. I remember consuming that first glass, anticipating relief, pleasure, or relaxation. And maybe those feelings do make an appearance. But all too soon, they drift away and thoughts of comparison, judgement and discontent take their place, along with that insatiable wanting for more…

The hours I wasn’t drinking consisted of another crew of thoughts occupying my mind. Disappointment, regret, loathing, guilt and anxiety, along with that insatiable wanting for more…

Now, I look back and shake my head (lovingly, of course) at the woman painting on a ladder that Memorial Day, convinced that she was missing out. My journey has led me to a place of peace.

Not constant peace, as I am far from the state of true enlightenment. But to a sacred place where peace alights on my shoulder like a butterfly, contentedly sunning its wings. It sits with me, in hallowed silence, and stays awhile, instead of flitting elusively above my head like it used to.

Now, I can contentedly tend my tomato plants and fill the bird bath and feeders in my yard. I can create and play a game of hop scotch on the sidewalk with my daughter. I can spend time in my kitchen, creating healthy, tasty, colorful meals that even my picky eaters enjoy (sometimes). I can take a hike on a beautiful day with my kids and my dog.

I can do all these things while free of that nagging feeling that I have to rush through them so I can board the insanity train to Oblivion.

This gift of peace inevitably invokes feelings of gratitude for the simple, intentional life I’m living, filled with authenticity instead of empty, unfulfilled promises. Gratitude that I stepped off the insanity train and arrived at the place of Peace.