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Through the window, on the empty trees, I saw the first buds of spring. A pervasive dampness that recalled the winter. Here, caught between two seasons, I reflected on what I had just been through and what I would have to brave tomorrow. In my case, both directions were bound by a single bridge. Addiction.
The semantics of recovery
Two months in rehab. “Treatment” is the appropriate word but in my experience is too vague a term. When you tell someone you’ve been “in treatment,” their faces curiously crinkle as they try to decipher its meaning. It could be treatment for cancer; some mental health sabbatical; physical rehabilitation after an accident. Over the years I’ve found they’re all similar in a way. Terrible storms we must sail through to find some new salvation on a sunnier shore. And, also in my experience, not everyone makes it to that new shore.
“Rehab” is a word people understand. It instantly conjures the notion of a facility housing junkies, athletes, and rock stars — all of which my rehab had seen more than a few. Picture a hotel room and you can imagine the space where I was standing, looking out that window at the tranquil forest they’d grown to hide us from the world. But unlike a hotel room, no one else was coming to clean up our mess.
We had to make our own beds correctly every morning, right down to the number of inches a blanket could hang above the floor. If we did it incorrectly, we’d get feedback. Ah yes, the feedback. A hallmark of recovery from addiction. Feedback on our attitude, our behaviour, our adherence to all the basic rules and schedules; all symbols of our serenity. Even feedback on our souls. Everything was meant to fashion us into somebody new. And I’d never been more frightened in my life.
Sometimes the scariest thing about a new beginning is letting your old self go.
Letting go of the old you
Sometimes the scariest thing about a new beginning is letting your old self go. Who am I now? is a daunting question. One we must revisit throughout our lives. Otherwise, we cling to old identities even if they no longer serve us. Our past selves, our younger selves—they’ve been the only constants. As everything around us changes and ages, as the familiar spaces we knew are torn down or renovated, our identity can feel like the only thing we have control over. My identity was as an addict and alcoholic and, with fitting irony, it was one I had no control over at all.
For years I drank and used drugs every day. I put whisky in my coffee so frequently for so long that for years after, years sober, the sip of coffee still carried a memory of that bite. It was a destructive identity. I bore the Midas touch of disappointment. Everything and everyone I touched turned to dread as I sank to the bottom of an ocean so deep and so dark that not even I could hear the screaming. They were the wails of the true self I had drowned in this false sense of identity. I’m deeply grateful he was not lost forever.
Sounds like hope
I remember going to my counsellor one day early in my treatment and she asked the loaded question, “How are you feeling?”
I couldn’t come up with an answer. I didn’t feel anything. Not numbness. Just nothingness. She told me that addicts abandon their emotional development from the day they start using. We’re unable to cope with our own emotions—good or bad. When we achieve something, we celebrate by using drugs and alcohol instead of feeling. When we’re upset, we hide it by using drugs and alcohol instead of feeling. A trademark of the ailment is an unwillingness to feel anything at all.
“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian
Change of environment
I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead.
New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes.
This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious: What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.
Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.
This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.
Letting change flow
Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.
My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.
Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though.
Chrono-diversity
It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes,
“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”
I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone.
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.”
When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.
During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes,
“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.”
I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.
She told me, “Your heart is a block of ice. You’ve finally taken it out of the deep freeze. Now it just needs time to thaw.”
I was terrified of not knowing who I was anymore, and caught in this chasmal transition between seasons. As terrible as my old self was, at least I knew him.
As the glacial shield around my heart melted, mirrored by the winter on the ground outside my window, the first feeling that emerged was fear. I was plagued by the question:
Who am I now?
Who am I now?
Who am I?
Who am I?
I was terrified of not knowing who I was anymore, and caught in this chasmal transition between seasons. As terrible as my old self was, at least I knew him.
The counsellors in rehab always talked about “turning ourselves over.” Accepting a higher power and turning ourselves over to that spiritual ooze. They told us our higher power could be anything as long as it was something greater than ourselves. Truth be told, I never pinpointed what mine was.
But one day, as my heart warmed up in the penultimate days of winter, I felt something new. Something bigger than myself. I felt the question change. I felt the fear of not knowing who I was anymore become the excitement of discovering who I wanted to be. Perhaps not so coincidentally, that morning in one of our exercises, we had to list things we wanted to do in the future after treatment. My page of entries was suddenly brimming with languages I wanted to learn, places I wanted to travel, instruments I wanted to play, and new dreams I wanted to realise. My counsellor was always cautious not to give me too much praise.
All she said was, “Sounds like hope.”
Our new selves
Hope. That’s what I was feeling looking out my window that day. Hope is the rainfall of self-discovery. It washes away the old remnants of who we were and nourishes the seeds of who we’ll become. In the years since that day, I’ve rediscovered myself again and again. As a father watching my children grow. As a writer who doesn’t need drugs to feel inspired (like I’d heard Bob Dylan told The Beatles). As a lover of the simple suburbs and their tree-lined streets beside my minivan. I discovered I love grapefruit. I discovered new hobbies. New dreams. New ways to express my affection. New associations for the things that once harboured echoes of darker days — like the taste of coffee.
This time of life we’re in, I often feel like it’s an ongoing process of coming to terms with all the things we’re losing—including our ideas of who we are.
A promise for the future
This time of life we’re in, I often feel like it’s an ongoing process of coming to terms with all the things we’re losing—including our ideas of who we are. For some, it’s triggered by something like overcoming addiction. For others, maybe it is a cancer diagnosis. Or navigating the wreckage of our parents’ estate. Perhaps it’s a relationship that has seen its day in the sun. But one thing they all have in common is not knowing who we are in the wake of that tectonic shift, which can fill us with fear.
But I promise you, if you pull your heart out of whatever armour you’ve made to protect it and let the freeze of that winter fade, the fear of not knowing who you are anymore will give way to something far more powerful.
Now you get to discover who you want to be next. And the songbirds of your new spring on the other side of that window—will all begin to sound like hope.
