On pain and sobriety

I am the kind of person who is apt to appreciate the most base parts of life. Often, the only things needed to make my day are a nice cup of tea, some beautiful flowers, and some quality time alone or with my loved ones in the sunshine. Other times, however, I can get into a funk where I look at the world around me and think, "is that all there is?" (is that all there is? If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing...)

I now understand that those thoughts come from a well of sensory overload and material indulgence. It's hard to be grateful for things you've never been denied access to. I think of prisoners in solitary confinement who spend years without shampoo or a magazine to read, and try to imagine what it would be like -- to look at such a colorful collage of words and images after looking at nothing but gray cell walls and your own hands and feet for far too long.

So in order to keep appreciating the smaller pleasures in life, I must practice restraint. Chasity. I do this almost automatically through my work as a forester. I come to the woods to harness my animus in my animal state. I eat plain meals and defecate in dirt holes. I banish my cell phone to the front pocket of my backpack to read and write and meditate and hike. Sometimes I stare at my tent wall and (try) to think of nothing.

Inevitably, the cravings come. For food, beer, white wine and rum. Good company. The sweet scent of a cherry clove cigarette. A hug and a kiss from the one I love. On day four [of work], a hot shower. A warm bed. Menial electronic entertainment (Instagram, The Kardashians, and the like...)

Other times, the cravings don't come at all, because I feel energized and totally immersed in my work. I find my flow, and like the great, white river it thrashes and roars with powerful, creative energy. On these hitches, I almost feel disappointed when the weekend comes. Can't I stay in the woods, drinking in the clean, sweet air, and the crisp, cold mountain water? Must I face jaded people in crowded grocery stores, stand under harsh fluorescent lighting, and be nauseated by the putrid scent of chemical perfumes? (yes, yes I do...)

As a teenager, I would hurt myself in order to feel something. I think I also did so in order to prove to myself that I was alive. The very act of self-harming was an overindulgence into the wild, hungry animal creature that lives in the pit of my stomach -- a toxic version of my starved animus, who was the shadow of who he was, before I honored him and made the necessary sacrifices to set him free.

But although I haven't cut myself in years, the inner urge to carry out masochistic practices has not evaded me. I channel it now through the pain of ten mile uphill hikes, rock climbing, and hours upon hours of strength training. And eating spicy foods, and getting Brazilian waxes, tattoos and piercings.

I know a boy who harvested stinging nettle until his bare hands were shaking. And as he told me how he did so, he smiled up until he leaned in to kiss me.