Kryptonite

Everyone has their kryptonite; be it sugar, fast cars, a sports team, shopping, whatever. A kryptonite is not a hobby, a habit, or an enjoyment. Kryptonite is a compulsion. A crippling power. A power that wastes something within a person; time, money, calories, willpower, etc.

My kryptonite is alcohol. No other dynamic in life justifies itself as falsely, cripples as thoroughly, or clings as closely to my spiritual Achilles heel as drinking does. Why? Yes, it is an escape. Yes, it is a social expectation. But mostly, I'm just good at it.

Other people might live with, and even enjoy, their kryptonite. But I don't have to. I don't have to waste time recovering. I don't have to waste money on something that wastes me. I don't have to waste hard earned muscle, strength paid for in sweat, stress, dollars, diets, sacrifice, dedication, health and tears.

I refuse to be owned by a substance. I refuse to be physically strong, but mentally weak. I refuse to settle for the status quo, or count among my accomplishments any sort of ability to embrace this weakness.

No matter how many times I fall on my face through this battle, I will keep pressing on. Each time, I will stand. Each time I will forgive. Each time I will absorb the blow, and take another step, because I believe in victory.


I am not a superhero, because I refuse to have a kryptonite.

Spiritual Selection

Most days, I feel as though I am in a spiritual black hole. I know that there is something there; it is all around me, and I progress through it, with no guidance, no direct intervention, and no ending. I believe in a being. Whether it is the being of elementary Sunday school, the being of the nation of Israel, the being who calms our spirits during yoga, the being behind all the coincidences and lucky happenings and seemingly unmistakable miracles, or all of the above, it is there. Somewhere.

Sometimes, I go to church. Most times, attendance is out of a sense of obligation, either to my mother, religious friends, deep-rooted inner scripts, or a guilty conscience. Today, I went to church for none of these reasons. I went for me.

I went, because I want to know what I believe. I want to know what I don't believe. If this being is here, I want to know him. I want to know why the only concept that I truly feel grounded in is love. And, if this being, God, is love, how many forms of love he takes on. Is he a selective love, a gender-biased love, a wait till your wedding day love, a temporary love, a passionate love, a gentle yet steady love, a wild love, a love found only in the church pew, or a love found in every plant, star, romantic book, ancient hymn and heathen heart?

Is hell truly a place of brimstone, or simply a place that love has left?

I wonder which is worse.

The War on Wine

My good friend Tia once told me that progress is not constant upward climb, but a series of peaks and valleys, dark places and fresh starts, but continuous, as long as you don't stop. Today is-yet another-of hundreds of fresh starts. I stand once more at the starting line of sobriety.

Why, you might ask. I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not dysfunctional. I'm active and fit and healthy and motivated. But, I'm not all I could be. When I ingest alcohol, I break my muscles down. I turn healthy cells into lipase cells, that I then have to fight to turn back into healthy muscle growth. I break down healthy brain function; I invite poor decisions, under utilize the small amount of time given to me on this earth, and deceive those who care about me most.

Here is to the dust I'm brushing off myself once again. Here is to the falling down, the breaking, the mistakes, the heartache, the regret, the resulting motivation, the starting over, and the non-existent finish line.

Why be good, when you can be better?
Why be effective, when you can be exceptional?
Why be drunk, when you can be sober?

Ready, set, run from mediocrity.