Less is More

Bottoms up.

(**I do this knowing I can only emphasize this suggestion but a few times ever, if not once: I highly recommend reserving the 15 minutes and listening to my voiceover while you read this post. Play link at the top.**)

This is getting heavy. No, I am not about to talk about something that brings the mood down. At least that’s not my intent. Seriously, this is heavy. I want to put some of it down. I want us to continue sharing this space, but I don’t want to carry around all this stuff. Besides, you can’t see me very well underneath all these layers. The layers hide me. I used to think they protected me. There is no good reason anymore to be this tired… overheated… and out of breath. Here, can you give me a hand? Get these ridiculous shades off my face so we can look each other in the eye. Unwind all of these ridiculous scarves suffocating me around the neck. Pull off all of these damn coats that make me look like Joey in that episode of Friends. Ask me a question, anything, so I have a reason to seek an answer for us. Help me see what other layers I don’t need anymore, so I can shed them and stand up straight… stand up honest.

Well, can this be true? Jeannie started a blog… wait newsletter, she calls it? Yeah, her blog thing. She is putting her writing out there on the internet. Now, I’m here to see what it’s about, and she tells me she’s all covered up?

Let me clarify y’all. Yes, I said “y’all” in my blog thing. Remember, I write from my home of five years, Nashville. And remember, I lived some of my younger years around the South- Tennessee, Texas, and Alabama. Oh, there I go again getting off track trying to prove something to you. A wise friend once told me if I’m trying to prove something, it probably means it’s not entirely true. Okay, so maybe I’m not a truly authentic southern belle, but I like to embrace certain charms of that ideal and make them my own. Back to the point. Here’s the thing. I’m not really all covered up anymore. If you’ve read my Substack posts up until this point, I can say they are honest. It is me. I’m not necessarily hiding under stuff anymore. What I’m trying to say is, it’s a little nerve wracking being out here, facing you all, without my usual “protective” layers. Notice I can still easily revert back to the delusion that they might keep me safe.

I will not pick them up to put them back on. I’m a little wobbly. I feel a little shaky. I am trying to steady my breath. I know this is important, so I will keep standing up, even though my knees feel like they are going to buckle. I can feel you looking at me. My muscle reflex to run and hide is twitching. I take a deeper breath. I let gravity pull my weight down. I let myself feel a little more held by the Earth, a little more held by something… deeper. My muscles relax. A voice reminds me that nobody has it all figured out. I’m not here to talk about things I have figured out. I am here to talk about things I do not have figured out. That is why we’re talking about them. Yes. Good. We are curious. We are seeking. We are learning. In my past life, this is about the point when I would pour us a couple tequilas. I would make sure you tapped the bottom of your shot glass to the kitchen counter. I would lift my glass to clink yours. CHEERS to layers off! Knowing me, I would pour another shot immediately and proceed to make another toast. I might start to feel warmed up and lose my inhibitions. I’d try to be clever and play on the words of layers off. CHEERS to streaking! Yeehaw! Bottoms up.

Photo by Alfred Quartey on Unsplash

What a beautiful segue into Seeing Upside Down. Bottom’s up. She almost drank her life into oblivion. All her layers ended up keeping her afloat. She found a way to stay alive. She is not going to talk in third person anymore because it’s getting annoying.

I’m here. I’m breathing. I’m awake to the fact that this life is a gift. I’m awake to the fact that you are a gift. It is a miracle to even sit here by myself and watch these words go onto the page… let alone when they reach you and become something else. Those layers that I’m telling you I already shed? They muted me. They blocked my channel. I couldn’t connect with you. I’m tuning in now. I’m attempting to connect with you. How’s the connection? Does it still sound fuzzy? I say let’s keep trying until we dial it in.

It is a miracle to even sit here by myself and watch these words go onto the page… let alone when they reach you and become something else.

That’s what I want to do with this newsletter. I want to keep trying. I would love for you to tell me when the connection seems clearer. I would also value and appreciate responses that tell me there still seems to be static. You can be frank with me. Really. Let me know if you think I’m full of shit. Or if you don’t cuss like I do, you can simply ask me what’s going on. I might write something that leaves you with a doubt, question, or disagreement. I might even find that response more interesting than praise these days. I used to kill for your praise, your words of affirmation. I was addicted to it like I was addicted to alcohol. I could never get enough. I needed you to approve of me. I needed you to tell me I’m worthy. Don’t get me wrong, I will still continue to light up like a lightening bug if you tell me something kind. Anyway, you get it. I’m gonna do my best to NOT throw up smoke screens around here. I’m gonna try to keep it REAL. Otherwise, what are we doing, you know?

I must give credit where credit is due. My Substack friend

Matt Zamudio

often challenges me without even realizing it. I subscribe to his publication

matt

. Go check it out. His posts are often a mirror for me, which I'm learning is a characteristic of a great writer. One of the mirrors I looked into in his most recent Friday post, Writing like a musician, made me laugh out loud. This is good because it means I’m not only seeing something of myself in what he writes, but that I’m also not taking it too seriously. Here is the quote:

Too often the heady writer comes to the page with an agenda. This is probably because writing is so specific, direct, and, at first glance, unambiguous that we desperately want to get the words right. If we don’t, the reader might miss our meaning, obvious consequence of which is the swift and merciless collapse of humanity.

That is one tiny piece of his incredibly written post that inspired me to forget whatever agenda my ego comes up with, let loose a little bit, have fun, and remember that you all will be just fine with or without that comma or “perfect” phrasing that I’ve been known to waste my time and energy on.

Yesterday, someone very dear to me asked me who I am. “Who are you, Jeannie?” Today, I am only going to focus on one part of what my answer was. I zoom in on this part in hopes it will help make my connection with you, reader, a little clearer.

I am Jeannie. Although I am a spiritual being, I am currently in human form. That means I am imperfect. I am fallible. I have made many mistakes. At times in my life, I even devolved. I hurt others. I took what was not mine to take. I lied. I cheated. I will not only talk in past tense when I am talking about making mistakes. I still make them. I will continue to make mistakes as long as I live in the duality of humanness.

I am going to tell you a story of a time when I took something that was not mine to take. In other words, I stole. For some of you, this might satisfy your search for something “juicy” in this newsletter. I get it! The juicy stuff is the good stuff. It is a true story about me, a crazy gal who is nowhere close to perfect. For another group of you, I don’t know for sure, but this might shatter your comfortable view of me. I say comfortable view because it might be one that keeps me nice, respectful, and without the ability to interrupt anything in your world. I’m talking in hypotheticals here. What you think about me is none of my business. I simply acknowledge that view of me might exist, and it does not give the whole picture. There. If any of you happen to be in the latter group, I’ve given you a fair head’s up.

Photo by Sunguk Kim on Unsplash

It was a time, just a shade over four years ago, when my resilient husband was desperately trying to help me get sober and stay sober. Present day, he now understands that this is not his responsibility nor is it within his control. Nonetheless, in that time when my drinking got out of control, he started to desperately grasp for control. He hid my wallet, any money, so I wouldn’t try to buy alcohol while I struggled through withdrawals. During one… (the whole truth Jeannie)… during a few trips to the grocery store for groceries, I snuck around the corner to the aisle with wine and shoved two bottles into my oversized purse. If that doesn’t give you a clear enough picture of the insane, ravenous, insidious, chaotic nature of addiction, then proceed to watch me go into the bathroom stall during the same trip to the store, untwist that bottle, and get it into my body as quickly as possible.

Oh, this is so healing. I sit here in tears streaming down my face, but not for the reason you might think. I’m crying as I write this because it is a way for me to meet Jeannie there in the bathroom stall at the store. I can now lift up her chin, look her in the eyes, and tell her I love her. I can tell her this won’t last forever. I can tell her she will get better. I can thank her. Thank you, Jeannie for going to the dark place. It was the most grand and brave journey you could have possibly chosen. Not everyone carries the treasure found in the darkness on into a transformed chapter of their life. Me? I have made the choice to never forget where I came from. If I got sober and blocked out all these less desirable things from my memory, then I would not get to experience redemption, which, in turn, makes me whole.

I had the honor of joining a worldwide group of superheroes in a program of 12 steps, which lead the way to our recovery from addiction. The ninth step (notice there are eight steps before this one) asks us to make amends to people we have hurt, as long as doing so does not put me or the other person in harm’s way. It came time to make amends to the community that is my local grocery store, where I stole the bottles of wine on multiple occasions. I brought my best estimate of the amount of cash which would cover what I stole. I walked up to the customer service counter and found an ounce of relief in the soft, kind eyes that met mine on the other side of the counter. “How can I help you?” she asked. I told her. Before I could even compare what happened to what I thought would happen, she was on my side of the counter with her arms around me. She hugged me and accepted me. I was not in handcuffs. I stood there melted in love and gratitude. Thank you Higher Power. Thank you AA. Thank you local grocery store. Thank you Jeannie for doing whatever it takes to seek and find.

I titled this post Less is more. I suppose we could argue that I just gave you more than you already knew about me. Yes, more is more in that sense. Look a little closer. I had to remove something in order for us to arrive here. I had to remove a veil between you and me so that you could see more of my true essence. By telling you this story, I have pulled back a layer or two of “the onion,” they often refer to in my recovery community. The person who I now consider one of my gurus often uses this metaphor too. This person even recently elaborated and said they like the center of the onion because it’s sweet.

Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash

So friends, let’s continue to get to the sweet part of the onion together. The sweetest me is the truest me. The sweetest you is the truest you. The paradox of this is we must meet all of these layers I was fussing about in the beginning. I gave you the picture of me still wearing all those coverings on purpose, even though I’m not necessarily still wearing all of them in real time. In Seeing Upside Down, I can tell the stories of those layers and how they came off… how they will continue to come off… because I have and will continue to gain the clarity that comes with hindsight and experience.

Well, thank you. I feel a little less wobbly now. I feel a little stronger after being vulnerable with you. My breath is more steady and deep than it was when I began writing this. The relentless doubt that was creeping around me before, telling me this newsletter will be a flop, is not as loud. I don’t think my knees will buckle anymore. In fact, I can feel now that my feet stand on firm ground.

We can carry on with less because our foundation is more.

With love, Jeannie