I’m sitting in the corner coffee shop, 4:47 p.m., staring at the almost empty pint glass of beer on a table next to an acquaintance’s computer. Irritated that that’s not me.
Last week I stood in line here to get my coffee, behind another acquaintance who was buying a pint of a different beer. This one was from a brewery in Fort Collins, Colorado, that I love and that I visited several years ago as part of a writing project (that never got off the ground) on solar-powered breweries. I love that label. It’s about fish. Cutthroat Porter. Come to think of it, maybe I have a fish-beer-label theme — think Two Hearted. We chatted about the brewery while the barista filled his glass. I had to walk away.
Earlier this week I wandered into the liquor store department of the grocery store and stared at the singles in the cooler. Not quite sure what I’m doing with this. Trying to integrate my life, perhaps. My eyes went to my previously favorite beer and I saw they’d changed that label — it has a heron on it now. One of my favorite birds. It’s an awesome label. God damn it.
I do grieve that I don’t get to participate in the rest of the craft beer craze. I think it’s important to grieve rather than brush this feeling right under the rug. I wish I could have all that. A part of me is distinctly inclined to opt for that “all in” drinking life, the complete escape. But a bigger part of me has said no. Says no, repeatedly.
I try to have conversations every few days with that part that wants the escape life; I try when she comes around. The conversations are not particularly going anywhere at the moment. But I think she has important secrets for me. I think the deep craving to isolate and create euphoria has great meaning and is a very real human experience. I also think there are other ways to heal the gash in my soul that I tried for so long to soothe with alcohol. I don’t want to press that question too hard, because I want the new path to open up on its own. I want to be taught rather than invent a new path completely from my rational frontal lobe. I want to be show, from the inside out.
And so here I am with my pint glass filled with a rather nice peach white tea. I love it, truly. It as a drink and the love that it represents for myself and all that I touch. And … I remain irritated by guy’s now-really-almost-empty pint glass of beer.
I am twins. Day 63.
Have a good one!