No long megillah

Today, I promise, I will be brief--no long megillah (forgive me, I'm Irish). While I was gone it rained, and although Arizona is as dry as a tortoise shell and I worry about the fire potential this summer, today is as clear and green and exquisite as only an Arizona day can be. I guess that's why this is, sadly, one of the fastest growing states in the nation.

One of my AA friends dropped by this morning and we drank coffee and talked. I told her about yesterday's "coincidence," and we had a laugh at how strong, how tenacious, denial is. She had been at her home group Wednesday night when a newcomer arrived, fresh out of a year in prison for a DUI. Usually a step study, the group immediately did what a small group should do when there's a newcomer: they went to Step One.

Sheryl talked to her after the meeting about the five things you've "got to do" to stay sober. (There are no musts, but there are a few "you darn well betters," I've heard said.) Cheryl ticked them off 1) Go to 90 in 90; 2) Read the literature; 3) Get a sponsor; 4) Work the steps; and 5) Pray, whether you believe in a Higher Power or not. The newcomer had a lot of excuses: No car, living in a remote area, a lot of reasons she couldn't go to a lot of meetings. If a year in prison hasn't made her willing, what will? That's between her and her God. All we can do is make suggestions.

I love it when a car comes up the drive. Ever since I've been clean, and even before, I delight in visitors. My parents welcomed visitors, what they called "southwest hospitality," and I think it's genetic, that feeling of welcoming someone into one's home. I try to ensure there's always a pot of coffee either on or ready to perc, and when company comes, I'm always happy.

Living 16 miles out of town prohibits all but the adventurous from visiting, though; everyone's schedule is busy with children or work and errands, it seems. The best part of the past year's medical travails has been that I've discovered something important. I never again want to work full-time. It impedes too much that I've found important--friends, the dogs, volunteering, blogging, writing--the things that I believe I was put on earth to do.

After the transplant, I had to be realistic. My life expectancy has changed. The question I've lately asked myself when weighing decisions--should I go to Missouri, should I go to Phoenix to a meeting, should I keep trying to find an agent for my books--is this: Is this really how I want to spend the time that I have left?

If it were a perfect world, I would never step foot out of Arizona again, except for vacations. But my partner is in Missouri and I'm perfectly happy there, so I will go, at least for part of the year. But Arizona is my home. Skull Valley is where I want to die. I want to be buried in a simple knotty pine casket and put in the Skull Valley cemetery with a headstone that says "I Only Came Here to Laugh."

The wind is blowing a bit, but if I listen, that's all I hear. Twice a day the train comes by and even though they're used to it, two dogs barking, well, they bark. They see that as their duty. Other than that, and an occasional bird, it is silent.

At night I sleep soundly, Romy at the foot of my bed, Oz curled up on the couch. Occasionally a pack of coyotes will howl and the dogs pick up their heads and listen intently. When the moon is full, we walk, the dogs bounding along in late-night ecstacy. I pull the curtains near the bed and the moon weeps in, bathing me in its topaz light.

And I know, without a doubt, that there is a God who is taking care of me. So until tomorrow, enjoy the spring. And don't forget, even if you're in a rough patch, to say "Thanks" to your Higher Power.