Every morning begins with routine.
Routine leads to structure. Structure leads to focus and presence. These lead to honesty, openness, and willingness.
They are the bones of a treatment centre which put us in the zone to sponge up the lectures, dig deep in therapy, and connect to people in new ways.
I like to think I have a bonus morning routine outside of meditating, making my bed, and reading my daily reflections. I open my blinds and greet Archie the Bunny.
Archie is outside my window every morning before 5am. Eating grass and being all bunny-like - cute, twitchy, eyes like black wet jawbreakers. His hair is brown with uneven white patches, much like the guy looking at him today.
There are a lot of wild rabbits out here. On the trail I walk daily with my new friends in groups of three, we see six or more brown hoppers, unfazed by the parade of humans - a few new faces every week - jabbering recovery-speak they don’t understand. The bunnies act as a dress rehearsal for post-treatment life. Sobriety lingo in the enthusiastic first weeks at home in the real world can tip the scales from inspiring to annoying to your partner, much like your college friend who returns from a week in England with a new accent.
Walking in groups of three on the nature trail and making my bed are two of a long list of rules here, all of which make sense. These include: never be late for groups (accountability), only fifteen minutes a week on our cell phones (to pay bills and such), no hoodies (intimidating, closed-off), mandatory thirty minutes in the dining hall even if it takes three minutes to eat (encourages connection), and no coffee in the lecture hall or group rooms (this one hurts).
Every second day, you can hear the indignant fury of a new client - mostly the young ones - screaming at the intake staff as their forbidden things are taken away. Protein powder. Smart watches. Shorts too short. We older clients sip our coffee, listening, knowing these hissy-fitters will come around in a week, yet secretly wishing they’re not our new roommate.
Naturally, within this peaceful current of people there is drama and growing pain. These are mere blips. Some take it out on the front desk or the one who took your shampoo. I take it out on my therapist.
When I open my blinds and see Archie, I know he’s there to let me know the day will be okay. I also know that in this idyllic retreat in the woods, it might be one of a dozen brown rabbits. But I like to think it’s always Archie.
My body clock and racing mind shake me awake long before the 7am wakeup knock, and it’s the best part of the day.
As the sun rises, the clouds turning fibreglass pink, there’s Archie. Ah, good old Archie. His own routine and accountability in check.
I stare for a while, and there’s always a moment when we look at each other.
Hey. We’re both in this place today. Let’s do this.
Then, Archie looks away, poops on the grass, and hops into the bushes that lead to the forest, full of beautiful and scary unknowns.
[Special thanks to Steve Pratt, who typed out my mailed letters and posted them, like only a good friend would take the time to do]
*Note from Steve: This is a treat. I can’t remember the last time I was this excited to check my mailbox. Also - Dispatch #1 is here.
Why no protein powder? 👀
So so funny. Love the bunny.