April 28, 2016 - Paul Hostovsky
- 13 hours ago
- 2 min read
A Day at a Time
Ten years ago on this day, I celebrated thirty years of sobriety. I stopped drinking and drugging when I was thirty-two. I started when I was seventeen. So, I drank and drugged for fifteen years. And with thirty years of sobriety, I was sober exactly twice as long as I drank and drugged. It was the old math, not the new math, and I was already in my early old age, not my late middle age anymore. It was the kind of math where the numbers in the word problem equal the problems of the people in the world problem. If you know what I mean. And if you don’t know what I mean, well, that’s okay because knowing is overrated. Today in my sobriety, I try to cultivate what the Buddhists call “Don’t-Know Mind.” Don’t know much but I know I love you, as the song goes. Anyway, ten years ago I was sober twice as long as I drank and drugged, and to celebrate that day, I decided to do everything twice: Two cups of coffee after getting out of bed. Two good morning kisses for my wife. The dog couldn’t believe his luck when I fed him two breakfasts. I read, and then reread, the poem-of-the-day in my inbox. Did forty minutes on the treadmill instead of twenty. Even when I made a mistake, I made the same mistake again. You’ll learn twice as much, I told myself. At dinner I had two helpings, and two desserts. And at the end of the day, before going to sleep, I said thank you to the universe for another day of sobriety. Then I said it again. Today, I still don’t know much. I still don’t know the new math. But I know the old math, and I know I’m still sober, a day at a time. Which is so much better than everything on the other side of the equation.
