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I was a year and a half sober when my dad died. Although we had a complicated relationship, I was devastated by his death. I even sat with him at the hospital for his last few breaths, which was both cathartic and soul wrenching. And perhaps the most powerful moment of my life.
I remember so much and so little from that day four years ago. I remember holding his limp hand. I remember his increasingly slower breaths, and the blank stare of his blue eyes. I remember whispering sweet platitudes in his ear, while my mom sat across from me, and my aunt rubbed his cold feet that peeked out over the scratchy hospital blanket.
That last breath, where I wondered if he was holding it in; wondering what he was waiting for? “Breathe in, dad. Breathe in…” Only he didn’t. He met his breathing quota for this life, a number we never know until it’s over. For a moment his eyes wandered to the window where the sky so perfectly matched his stormy, weathered irises.
It was his time. Of course it was. And I couldn’t imagine a more loving, peaceful way to go. But even a picture-perfect death is littered in emotion for the living. It’s hard to find closure for someone who’s left your heart devastatingly open.
In the weeks following his passing, I thought occasionally about drinking. It seemed to me that people would understand if I started drinking again during such loss. Addiction is funny like that. Always sitting on your left shoulder like a devil from the cartoons, whispering in your ear sweet sabotaging thoughts. Explaining everything away with such conviction, even the strongest can be convinced in the right moment.
One of the thoughts that kept me from drinking, though, was imagining how sad my dad would’ve been if he knew his loss was the catalyst for my relapse.
So I stayed steadfast, even though I never felt weaker. And to pass the days, I started looking for magic. I prayed to God for a sign that all of this has purpose. I needed certainty, comfort, and ethereal hope.
I walked around looking for rainbows, and saw a few… but not right away. The days were stormy and damp, and made perfect rainbow ecosystems. The day he died, after we left the hospital, I went home and stood outside in the light rain for hours willing a rainbow into existence. I made threats to God, telling him it’s the least he could do right now. I later found out that my mom saw a double rainbow that day. Maybe she needed it more than I did. Over the coming days I would see several rainbows, which eased my aching heart.
I started noticing butterflies with a focus on my surroundings that once felt so wistful and inattentive. The sounds of crickets, frogs and birds felt comforting but also deeply impactful and by design. Like nothing was a coincidence anymore. The world around me was a walking billboard of energy and signs, constantly in communication with me and everything else like a bustling nature switchboard. When I started paying attention, the world around me spoke to me like an angel sitting on my right shoulder.
There is endless magic in nature. If you are in the right headspace, you will see it everywhere. And when you are sober, your senses tingle with foresight and anticipation. I found more magic in my five years sober than I ever did in my 20+ years drinking, and it’s no surprise. The blurry edges of alcohol dull even the sharpest fractals of infinite beauty.
After my dad died, I pined for the magic. I was thirsty for something to line my heart with a warm reckoning that everything was going to be ok. I sought comfort in it in the way I once sought comfort in alcohol.
If you are feeling lost in addiction, or raw and vulnerable in early sobriety. If you feel complacent in long-term sobriety, or simply feeling rough around the edges wherever you’re at… make time in nature. Put your phone away. Leave the airpods at home. Keep your eyes alert and aware. When you one-click an order from the universe, it will always deliver. It might come as a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it butterfly, a gentle symphony of insects or a cant-miss-it-even-if-you-tried rainbow straight ahead, but it will be a magic customized to what you need, and what you’re willing to recognize.
I’m not saying the days after my dads death felt like magic. They didn’t. But it took magic to get me through those days.
And when I looked for magic, I found it.
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