Woke at 5am. It's raining gently. 5:16 am. This is not very good. I could fill a page with excuses and reasons. A good day sorting things out, fixing the windows, a lovely late afternoon / evening. Cooking a very wine associated, old good life, Ma and family and Spain associated meal, Hattrick and I excusing each other for slurping, the half bottle in the fridge (would I have opened the box of Sauvignon, just to add some wine to the stew? possibly not), the incipient bolshiness about Laurence - turning up late, staying with his mates at La Cadoue. Ironic, reading the Rule and the commentary about doubt, self absorption, 'Vows that can't be kept completely but can be constantly repaired' p27 and Rule 27. Day 15, and now Day 4. I've been here before, and I don't want to go back. What could I have done differently, apart from simply and finally saying no, no, no.
Belle was right (about Day 15 being a bad / worrying sign). I don't want to normalise the 'occasional' drink / slip up, the special excuse - what was 'special' about yesterday, apart from the fact that I drank? Who do I have to confess to today? Belle, which I don't want to do, again. Share it at this morning's meeting? Which I definitely don't want to do. That (involving the people around me) is not how I got here - I didn't tell anyone for weeks, when I stopped last October, apart from here, and Belle. Laurence? Again, no, not now. And why am I slipping here, of all places, where I should be safest? Not Naxos, where no one would have noticed or cared.
Belle will say more tools, more supports. But I'm not sure, apart from her 4 emails a day idea, what they might be. A simple determination not to. Start again. 7 days. Drink tomorrow, not today.
The accidie, about Laurence's arrival, and everyone's reeaction to it, seemed to come after the drink, but maybe it had been lurking there, before, below the surface, waiting for the drink to let it out.
It really is raining. Enough tobacco for one more fag. Try giving that up too? Get off the 'I want/ deserve/ need a fag/ coffee/ fake beer/ slurp' treadmill.
The bell's ringing for meditation. 6am.
Of all the things I might have cooked, pollo sarsa is the one most associated in my { self } with the good life, of drinking for pleasure and joy. Not that my drinking last night was either - it was desperate and sneaky and alkie, apart from the glass of red wine I had with supper.
Laurence was late. I don't think Andrew wanted to start without him, but he did in the end. Did I make him? I was getting ready to get up and leave, or at least go and check the kitchen clock.
So. The mantra is just letting go, and forgiveness. I need too to let go of all this, and forgive myself, pick myself up and try again. And stop being so self absorbed! I kept dropping the thought, and returning to the mantra, just letting it go, and letting myself go with it.
A lot of this is just me, the ego (which is all I am), desperately trying to put a face on, to feel good about myself, to have others think well of me, to wall off the bad, weak, wrong bit of me, to push it down and away, as if 'it', 'that' is not just as much me as the supposedly good bits. I am all one, not good, not bad, not perfect or perfectable, just as I am, and everything - Rebecca the Lost Sheep, Delyth the creepy disciple, wet Andrew, Laurence (there's a complicated package, in my head) - bits of me, rejected and othered and projected out there, all telling me about myself. Becoming friends complicates things. It's much easier to see the projections with strangers coming and going, like Cathy Boyne, or Linda Schmalstein. Funny how neutral I feel towards Rita - like I see the real her, she provokes nothing in me. I noticed this morning how thin her hair is, which must hurt her. And she seems lonely. A lonely trip round Spain, sightseeing until she goes back on June 19 - she leaves today. Occasionally mentions her daughter. Never her husband. She said at yesterday's share how much she'd got out of being here, even though she'd had problems with someone, now gone. Henriette? Mary? Maybe me.
Everyone else is weird. I'm the only normal one here.
Made porridge for breakfast. All the radio stations are crap. Listening to Aden's Superdream, very soothing. Another grey day.
Susanna M sent me some photographs. One of me looking like a mad old man, which I suppose I am, really. Get rid of the beard?
Is Belle my confessor? And is that good enough?
Belle was right (about Day 15 being a bad / worrying sign). I don't want to normalise the 'occasional' drink / slip up, the special excuse - what was 'special' about yesterday, apart from the fact that I drank? Who do I have to confess to today? Belle, which I don't want to do, again. Share it at this morning's meeting? Which I definitely don't want to do. That (involving the people around me) is not how I got here - I didn't tell anyone for weeks, when I stopped last October, apart from here, and Belle. Laurence? Again, no, not now. And why am I slipping here, of all places, where I should be safest? Not Naxos, where no one would have noticed or cared.
Belle will say more tools, more supports. But I'm not sure, apart from her 4 emails a day idea, what they might be. A simple determination not to. Start again. 7 days. Drink tomorrow, not today.
The accidie, about Laurence's arrival, and everyone's reeaction to it, seemed to come after the drink, but maybe it had been lurking there, before, below the surface, waiting for the drink to let it out.
It really is raining. Enough tobacco for one more fag. Try giving that up too? Get off the 'I want/ deserve/ need a fag/ coffee/ fake beer/ slurp' treadmill.
The bell's ringing for meditation. 6am.
Of all the things I might have cooked, pollo sarsa is the one most associated in my { self } with the good life, of drinking for pleasure and joy. Not that my drinking last night was either - it was desperate and sneaky and alkie, apart from the glass of red wine I had with supper.
Laurence was late. I don't think Andrew wanted to start without him, but he did in the end. Did I make him? I was getting ready to get up and leave, or at least go and check the kitchen clock.
So. The mantra is just letting go, and forgiveness. I need too to let go of all this, and forgive myself, pick myself up and try again. And stop being so self absorbed! I kept dropping the thought, and returning to the mantra, just letting it go, and letting myself go with it.
A lot of this is just me, the ego (which is all I am), desperately trying to put a face on, to feel good about myself, to have others think well of me, to wall off the bad, weak, wrong bit of me, to push it down and away, as if 'it', 'that' is not just as much me as the supposedly good bits. I am all one, not good, not bad, not perfect or perfectable, just as I am, and everything - Rebecca the Lost Sheep, Delyth the creepy disciple, wet Andrew, Laurence (there's a complicated package, in my head) - bits of me, rejected and othered and projected out there, all telling me about myself. Becoming friends complicates things. It's much easier to see the projections with strangers coming and going, like Cathy Boyne, or Linda Schmalstein. Funny how neutral I feel towards Rita - like I see the real her, she provokes nothing in me. I noticed this morning how thin her hair is, which must hurt her. And she seems lonely. A lonely trip round Spain, sightseeing until she goes back on June 19 - she leaves today. Occasionally mentions her daughter. Never her husband. She said at yesterday's share how much she'd got out of being here, even though she'd had problems with someone, now gone. Henriette? Mary? Maybe me.
Everyone else is weird. I'm the only normal one here.
Made porridge for breakfast. All the radio stations are crap. Listening to Aden's Superdream, very soothing. Another grey day.
Susanna M sent me some photographs. One of me looking like a mad old man, which I suppose I am, really. Get rid of the beard?
Is Belle my confessor? And is that good enough?
'While intelligence considers options,
I am somewhere lost in the wind.'
Rumi. 'What's not here'.
From Benedict's Dharma. I need confession and prostration.
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