Journal
Entry April 5, 2007
The fifth War VeteransÕ Writing Workshop (CWS 5) will begin April 14, 2007. Nine writers have signed up for the course. Of these, three are past participants. IÕve sent the Welcome email, and IÕm excited about the next few weeks, weeks that will be filled with more than writing, writers, and workshop. Easter, a special day for me, takes center stage now. Easter is a time of reflection for me. Easter 1992 was my best Easter.
On Easter morning 1992, I awoke alone in my barracks room at Futenma Marine Corps Air Station in Okinawa, Japan. After a seven-year struggle with sobriety, I was thirty-four years old and three months sober with six months remaining on my tour of duty in Okinawa. My six-year marriage was in a shambles, as was my reputation in the Corps. I was a gunnery sergeant with fourteen years served on active duty. I entered the Corps as a drunk and a druggie and spent most of that fourteen years drunk. IÕd gone through a six-week military alcoholism rehabilitation program at Bethesda Naval Hospital during 1985, but IÕd slipped back into drinking two years and nine months later, during my marriage. My belief in the miracle of life had been lost during those shadow years of traveling through hell.
On that Easter morning in 1992, life seemed a miracle. I sat beside a stream behind my barracks, and watched the sun rise. The Japanese landscape rolled before my eyes, a green carpet flecked with orange-gold blooms of a nearby field of gladiolas. Through the headset of my cassette player, I listened to Cat Stevens sing ŅMorning Has Broken,Ó one of my favorite tunes from the 70s. I sang along, my heart filled with gratitude, my belief in the miracle of life restored.
It was a long road to that moment fifteen years ago. And the road hence traveled has been no less savage. On that Easter morning fifteen years ago, I had no idea that before I retired from the Corps, I would become partially disabled during a deployment to Ecuador; that my dreams of a landscape design career would be crushed by my injuries; that fear of winding up a greeter at WalMart would drive me to attend college; that I would complete a six-year degree in four years; that I would be divorced for the second time and remarried for the third time; that my lifelong dream of becoming a writer would translate into an MFA degree, a teaching position, becoming a published writer, and a notable citation in Best American Essays 2005. Nor did I know that I would spend Easter Sunday 2004 writing the essay that earned that notable mention, an essay reflecting upon my desire to drink following the death of my sister-in-law from alcoholism eighteen days before. When the broken shoelace will get me into the next drink is only one thing of which I can never be certain Š this is the crux of alcoholic uncertainty.
This Easter, I have so much to celebrate. 15 years sober, I recently completed a six-week project as playwright in residence for a local theater group. The play I wrote was performed in first draft mode, but the audience enjoyed it and the director, crew, and cast were challenged by the performance. My first full year as teacher is coming to a close. I wonÕt be returning to teaching full time, but the experience helped me grow. My husband and I recently celebrated ten years of marriage. We live on an island in a most amazing home on nine acres. And I have all the unknowns of the year ahead just waiting to enter the stage of my life. There is no way to know what the future holds. In hindsight, I can honestly say, my greatest weakness, alcoholism, has become my greatest strength. I hope the nine writers I will meet next Saturday will find that what once seemed weakness can be translated into strength. Uncertainty is the principle upon which all beginnings find their source in the paradox of blind faith.
Welcome to CWS 5.