Field Notes

It's been a while since I've offered up any of my usual writing on recovery and life...even my website app is reminding me.

"It's been three months since you've posted a blog."

I've thought of sitting down to write. I've sat down to write. Ideas have appeared and just as quickly, vanished. Perhaps I haven't put in enough time for anything to land. The thing about writing is that it requires "preparation". Sometimes that looks like sitting at your computer and staring out the window for a good half hour, or dealing with the pile of clothing at the foot of your bed. "How can I possibly write with that mess in front of me?" Other times, it's sorting the waxy stack of crumpled receipts strewn all over the desk. You do one or all of these things and only then...can you sit your butt down, place your fingers on the keys and start tapping out what's floating around in your head.

And even then, you might walk away empty-handed.

I actually have been writing. I joined a memoir-writing course this fall, led by Ann Dowsett Johnston, author of Drink, The Intimate Relationship Between Women and Alcohol (an important book for women in recovery). It's a wonderfully intimate group and having been in one of Ann's courses in past, I'm feeling the excitement of words rising and the shyness to share, ebbing. It's a sacred practice of creative vulnerability: to write, listen and to read out loud and share, in a circle of women.

Last week, one of the writers, her voice and breath shaky, spoke of how she was going through a break-up and having trouble landing in her daily writing practice. Ann listened attentively and then suggested that she simply relieve herself of the notion that she must be productive in her writing.

"Just take field notes. Write about what is happening, how you are feeling, conversations you are having...field notes, no pressure."

What an obvious and brilliant way to keep a writing practice alive and (who knows), capture experiences, emotions and dialogue that could shape a part of some story waiting to be born. That is a writers job: to write, to move from head and heart onto paper, recording moments in a day, in a house, in a country, on the earth. And so here I am with you today, showing up with a still-large case of writers block...simply sharing field notes from life lately.

The fall season in eastern Ontario, after a summer of oven-like temperatures, has been glorious, with azure blue skies above and golden and glowing red, yellow and orange leaves as far as the eye can see. Us northerners are making the most out of this short but sublime season.

In September I marked 13 years on a recovery journey, 11 of them sober. It's easy to forget how life used to be, before recovery, especially when I'm wading through the muck. 2025 has full of drama, calamity hitting me upside the head over and over again. People I love are going through unfathomable loss and unexpected catastrophes, blunt reminders that life is random, unpredictable and precious. We think we're moving all the life pieces in a pleasing pattern - or at least a livable one - and then "swoosh", it all gets blown away in an instant. No more whole pieces, just scattered debris.

And then there is war, politics, the rising of ideologies and their frightening systems designed to disempower people. They seem to dominate all spaces these days, sneaking and punching their way their way forward. The whole world is in retrograde, causing many people, (including myself, lover of apocalyptic sci-fi movies) to feel like characters in the scene just before the aliens land. "What next?!"

But I am sober. The words rush to the tip of my tongue and I have gratitude in my heart. Unfortunately, world event, external ticking time bombs shout loudly at us from every type of media and they are not disarmed by 11 years of sobriety. And yet, I (we) must keep going; practicing what is real and true and important. I could so easily not...I could slide right into the news app on my Iphone, skipping through salacious story after story, and never come back out. If I am honest, that's kind of what I want to do some days. I understand this want, because...addiction. This is just another pathway to numbing out.

This last part of 2025 has been full, building a business and helping my partner straighten out his business. I'm caring for my high-needs son who is 20 years old now. That caregiving alone takes up approx. 80-90 hours of a 164 hour week and it's exhausting. I am in a five-year relationship, I volunteer 3-4 hours a week. I go to the gym four days a week (okay, I aim to go to the gym four days a week). I make time to write, read, and listen to audio books and podcasts. I nurture my recovery, some weeks better than others.

Did I say I am kind of exhausted?

I waffle in-between "I need to change so many things in my life" and "nothing REALLY needs to change". Nothing in my life is on fire, perhaps more like glowing coals that could ignite into flames if something accidently floated down into the pit.

Two and a half months are left in this year. We are on the downward slide. I'm starting to visualize 2026, to plan and to savour the fresh start coming our way. How about you? Are you feeling it in the cooling the October air? In the crackle of fallen leaves under your feet? The credits are starting to roll on this year and if I wasn't feeling so tired tonight, I'd pull out my journal and perhaps jot down some reflections. Maybe I'll start the process with some questions.

How about...

• Who were the players in your life this year? Who were your supporting actors and what did they add to your story?

  
  

• What scenes have stood out so far in 2025: the good, the bad, the ugly. What did you learn? What scenes were just gratuitous, i.e. "WTF?"

  
  

• What are you on the edge of...right now?

I'd love to hear it. In fact, perhaps I'll post these prompts in the Expand Beyond Recovery Facebook group and see what comes back.

I'll close my field notes today with these words, printed on a card, perched upon my desk. One of my favourite poet-teachers, Rumi, sharing wisdom from the past that is so appropriate today.

"Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone's soul heal. Walk out of your house, like a shepherd."

With love and solidarity...from the field,

Payton xo