Here's where I am right now: Scrolling through Facebook AGAIN. Obsessively. It's gotten worse over the past week or so. Social distancing.

It feels like I want to know something that I just can't know. I pore over people's posts and the news, and click on photos--even my own sometimes--but remain ungratified.

Last night I realized I wasn't writing anything anymore, or playing music, Or making anything. I sat with my hands in my lap listening to "All Things Considered" and stared ahead vacantly. Then, just to change *something*, began to survey the room. Judged myself for having a coloring book, then got it out. Got out colored pencils. Filled the spaces tight to the lines. Tried not to put the same hues together. Kept an even pressure on the pencils. Got excited by the idea of adding black. Forgot the news. Forgot the vacant feeling. Remembered what it was to make something. Wrote this today, and shared it.

A thousand different pamphlets on the wall. 

I found the material inside them boring. 

They all have the information inside them, but none of them scream, "Read me!"

I guess that's where I come in. 

"Have you tried ______?"

"Would you consider ______?"

Why is it so hard to convince someone to save their own life?

Make sure you’re letting yourself feel. If you need anything just say the word. I can check on you if you need me to. I’m sorry for your loss. Do you need a hug? Can I give you a hug?

I’m going to hug you now.

My friend could do some reiki for you. I’ll keep you both in my prayers. You are in our thoughts. Try not to dwell. Work can be the best salve. Just focus on whatever is in front of you! Focus on the good times. Focus on the fact that you did everything you could. You did everything you could... focus… I’m so sorry for your loss. You know when I went through it…

Sometimes it gets a little crowded with grief in the room.

We are pleased to announce that Writers for Recovery Co-Founder and Creative Director Gary Miller has accepted a seat on the board of directors for the Vermont Association for Mental Health and Addiction Recovery (VAMHAR). A statewide information and advocacy organization, VAMHAR supports all paths to recovery from addiction and mental health conditions. Since 1939, the organization has worked to promote mental wellness in Vermont, and to be the state’s voice in education, training, and community support.

Current VAMHAR programs include the Recovery Coach Academy; Camp Daybreak for kids 8-11 with a range of social, emotional, and behavioral needs; and VTARR, the Vermont Association of Recovery Residences. In addition, VAMHAR operates the Vermont Alcohol and Drug Information Clearinghouse (VADIC), which provides reliable information about substance use disorder and recovery.

“I’m honored by the invitation to join the VAMHAR team,” says Gary. “In 2018, I participated in the Recovery Coach Academy, and it was an incredible professional experience. The VAMHAR staff is amazing, and they’re making a real difference for people all over Vermont." Stay tuned for more news about VAMHAR.

Just take your time. It's yours. Because you are yours, and no one can claim otherwise. Countries, whole masses of purportedly connected humans, may elect presidents, may be usurped by dictators. Because you are yours, no other may preside over you, may dictate your self, may take you. You are yours. When you are yours, you have all you need. Time need not be taken, because it's just there, infinitely and irreversibly so. When you are yours, may the strife of the battle between mine and yours relent and dissipate. May we no longer recognize a need to take what's infinitely there.

I haven't been on this road before" is a sentiment I would often refract in some way at the relative peak of some chemically-induced trip: a drunkenness, a highness. "I didn't used to be like this," I once told a lover (with no memory of having done so) as I slipped into unconsciousness.

I hadn't been down this road before, I'd say. Excitedly, sometimes. Wistfully, sometimes. But always with a sense of long-overdue entitlement. Like I'd been robbed (by whom I couldn't say) of a cultural rite of youthful passage to freedom. From the inhibitions and fears of a muted self. From isolation.

Where to now?

Sometimes it gets a little crowded, and I clamor for space. Sometimes it gets noisy, busy, and I feel the defensive spring in me coil, and I fear its sudden release, whatever that may look like: the snap judgment in desperate search for release, relief, is perhaps without exception a dangerous one.

It gets a little crowded, I notice. The room fills gradually with personalities that are foreign to me; the supposedly voluminous thought-space can swell and ache so quickly with guests, some of them jostling for acknowledgement, some doing violent demonstrations, demanding to be acted upon.

I do not know if I
would have been able
to tell you all things
considered — the present
though is what we have
I have the gift of
presence
Get that?
present and presence
I didn’t make it up but I couldn’t
have anyway
This is it
The whole ball of wax
one big present
event waking + sleeping

coming and going

breathing in
and blessing out

Compassion
Redemption
Cohesion
Absolution

Always finds a voice in
This now this
Clearer spirited yes
This wise wild
calamity of
being

This, That, + the other
so if you indeed
ask me
I probably couldn’t
quite begin to
Tell you but
I would
Try

How could they think that

The goose was fine after the wine?

All night long she dropped eggs all over town,

While chasing the gander.

Feathers blanketing the ground.

Now no pillow have I!

I close my eyes and pretend 
I prop you up and make excuses for your behavior 
I lie to my friends and say I’m fine 
I tell my sister that it’s really a great life 
I post pretty photographs on Facebook 
Inside I die a little bit every single day
While you look through me 
When I can take it no more
I look at me and see
There’s so much more to me 
Than pretty photographs by the sea
I leave you 
And I find me

Be careful where you go.
I know, I know. 
I want to scream. 
Can’t I, just for today, not be careful. 
Just for today, can I be careless? Like a child. Carefree, I mean. 
Unsure. Imperfect. Me.
Can I run without looking.
Jump without a net.
Sing out loud missing every key.
And revel in being me.
Silly, naive, mean spirited, too.
A daredevil riding without a helmet, speeding ahead into the unknown and grinning, wildly, maniacally, cackling and hitting the wall in peace.

My hiding place has been discovered. Shit! When you’re 5’9” playing hide and go seek with a 3 year old in a 3 bedroom apartment, there are not a lot of good hiding places to squeeze into. And suddenly you realize this is just a game and you are meant to be having fun. All of it. You are meant to be having fun with all of it. The good. The bad. The ugly. Stick your hands in the mud and let your fingers play, draw and paint with mud. Get dirty. Relax. Breathe. Laugh. Giggle. Be. Isn’t that better. Be like a 3 year old. Look at the world with joy, awe and a sense of wonder as you discover a new way of being with the human race. 

I feel uncharted roads are obsolete or a relic of the past, but in all honesty that's just my ego. When I search for peace, wisdom, and knowledge I realize they are futuristic roads that have yet to be discovered by man. And I find myself intrigued again. Like finding buried treasure and what that may hold excites me. I vision Pandora's  box disguised as a clunky old rusted and rotting pirates chest. But inside carries the seven wonders of the world at their peak of existence. Much like a pirate who looks rough, tough, and treacherous, but only his crew, ship, and loved ones know the love, loyalty and compassion he carries within. Though I haven't been on this road rough and scary. Paradise may be on the other side.

My options were running out. Death was knocking at my door. It was either get help or die. I didn’t have much time. My friends were no longer friends, my family didn’t understand and couldn’t help me. I didn’t have much time. The sleeping pills are kicking in now, the whiskey is drowning me. I either fight to stay alive or just disappear into the unknown, all I know is I didn’t have much time. To feel alive is one thing, to just exist is another. Either way, I didn’t have much time. I wake up in a fog, no real recollection of anything. I decide to seek help because I didn’t have much time. Days turn to weeks, that turn to months, that turned to years. I wanted to get better but I didn’t have much time. Now it seems I have all the time in the world.

I am from my Mother and Father,

Born in flesh.

I am from a time not like this one,

Can’t choose what’s next.

Time aren’t the same, people have grown, but

Where I am from is a place not yours

But my own.

I am from the 80s, yes

Let it be known,

Me, a listener, a thinker, and artist,

Not like those who bore me,

But I am from a place and time all my own.

A little town, that’s home,

Now a city,

Now a hotel

That doesn’t make me.

I am from the place where I was

Meant to come from,

A time of living is now upon me,

a time of learning,

a time of joy!

I am from my God,

My creator

He made me.

I am from where I was meant to come from,

I would choose no other place…

Nobody Really Knows by Oscar Delgado, Jr.

Nobody really knows how it happened,

The friend,

The lover,

The fighter for your rights.

Nobody really knows how he fell,

Where he went to,

He would just disappear.

Nobody really knows how it happened that

Someone so supportive, strong, kind, and gentle,

Could be lost for 20 years.

He came back once, twice, three times,

Many really,

But always disappeared.

Nobody really knows how it happened.

He was so broken,

But thought he was fine.

Nobody really knows how it happened,

Now they see him, he smiles.

Is it real this time?

Nobody really knows the pain it caused,

The lessons he’s still learning,

The tears he cries to God, if only…

Never comes out, it’s gratitude now.

Nobody really knows how it happened,

How he woke from the nightmare,

All they had to do was ask,

God did,

God knows,

And there’s a secret to his new self.

I wrote my vows

On some calico or other

Eco-sustainable earthy sheet

And framed it in untreated timber

To match my image of who I was

Trying to be.

It hangs in its seeing silence

From our bedroom wall

Asking me to look up

And read it

Once in a blue moon

And I don't.

I meant every word,

All of it is true,

But I have changed.

I am listening.

Words collapse me

From my core.

Tears bleed

From my buried wounds.

My dark cave

Has opened wide

And released me

To what might be possible.

How it all worked out. It never usually works out; well sometimes it does. When things fell apart, I was drinking and taking large quantities of speed, some prescribed, some off the street. I was homeless for a bit. Stopped taking my meds and lost my shit. Mood stabilizers and anti-depressants. She was frightened when the shit hit the fan. I was talking too fast, I was breathing too fast, I hadn’t slept in days. I tramped around our house screaming. Life is, was, can be, too hard. Fuck it, life is shit, so I threw caution into the flames and danced around the pit. She took off out the door. I needed help but couldn’t articulate this level of pain. She couldn’t help me so I called the police. They must have thought someone was killing me, from how I sounded over the phone. Eight cruisers, a firetruck, and an ambulance came to my rescue. Now, no more speed, no more drinking, back to sleeping again, back on my meds. A few months down the road, after many excruciating tribulations, things worked out for us and I’m back home again; but fuck if I don’t deserve it: things always fall apart again, & again—I guess I’m scared I might lose it again, & again….

Recently we collaborated with our friends at Scrag Mountain Music on the Lullaby Project. This program, which was created at Carnegie Hall’s Weill Institute of Music, helps expecting and new moms write lullabies for their children. We visited the Lund center in Burlington and helped 6 moms write lullabies. Then Scrag Mountain performed the songs at concerts in Burlington, Montpelier, and Warren. Here’s a story about the project on VPR. We’ll share some concert footage soon.