Whispering Wyrd

The Healing Web

recent posts

  • Things I Miss About Texas

    Those who’ve followed this blog (and my previous one) know I moved to New Mexico from Texas six years ago. But if you’re new here, welcome, and here are some thoughts that popped into my head today.

    One of my sons and his wife are currently visiting Texas. Next month, my wife, our youngest son, and I will head there ourselves for a visit. That got me thinking about making a list of all the things I miss about Texas.

    Here’s what I have so far…

    1. Nothing.

    Okay, that was a joke. My attempt at humor.

    Seriously though, after living in New Mexico for six years now, here’s my completely honest, no-holds-barred comparison between the two. These are just my own experiences and opinions, of course. Your mileage may vary.

    Let’s start with the two biggest differences I’ve noticed… weather and culture.

    It’s hard to say which one comes first.

    The Weather

    I can say with certainty that I never liked Texas weather for more than about a week at a time. Texas gets brutally hot and humid. Winters are usually mild, until suddenly they’re not.

    New Mexico gets hot too, but where we live, it doesn’t hit those Texas triple digits. And there’s no humidity. That alone makes a lot of difference.

    Don’t get me wrong, the sun here at over 7,000 feet can be intense. The UV index is no joke. Five minutes in the direct summer sun will leave you wondering what just happened to your skin. We’ve all learned that lesson the hard way. Still, I’ll take dry heat over sticky heat any day.

    Then there’s rain.

    Where we lived in Texas, rain in the forecast meant flooding and a washed-out road. That area can get more rain in a single storm than we get here in Santa Fe in months. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true.

    We do have a “monsoon season” here. I always laugh at that name, because in six years I’ve only seen Texas-style rain twice. Most of the time it’s gentle showers. Sometimes just enough to dampen the sidewalk. It is dry here. I admit, I miss rain.

    Before we moved here, people who’d already relocated here from Texas told us the same thing, they missed water. Not Texas, just water. Turns out they were right.

    In Texas, oil is king. In New Mexico, it’s water.

    Mosquitoes (or Lack Thereof)

    I hate mosquitoes. I really hate mosquitoes. Where we lived in Texas, going outside meant being instantly devoured. Opening the door for thirty seconds invited a small airborne invasion into the house. There are bugs everywhere there, not just mosquitoes.

    Here in Santa Fe though? Maybe a few show up a day or two after a heavy rain. But since heavy rain is so rare, mosquitoes are blessedly scarce. This alone improves quality of life dramatically. There really aren’t many bugs here at all. That’s something that I always notice when we visit Texas, how many bugs there are there.

    Shade That Actually Works

    Here’s something that’s a really stark difference… standing in the shade during summer here actually cools you off. In Texas, shade just meant you weren’t actively being cooked by the sun, but it was still just as hot as not in the shade.

    And at night? New Mexico cools down! Even on the hottest days, once the sun sets, the temperature drops.

    In Texas, it stays hot all night. I vividly remember walking out to my vehicle before sunrise for work and it being in the 90s. That’s just ridiculous. I do not miss that at all.

    The Culture

    It amazes me how different neighboring states can be. Southeastern New Mexico might as well be Texas, same landscape, same vibe.

    But central and northern New Mexico? Especially Santa Fe and north? To me, it feels like an entirely different country. And I don’t just mean politics (though those really are polar opposites). I’m talking about culture. There’s so much diversity here. It just naturally changes everything.

    Santa Fe’s nickname is “The City Different,” and it absolutely lives up to that name. I love it!

    There’s art everywhere. History everywhere. Spirituality everywhere. You don’t feel like you have to fit into any single mold. You can just… be yourself. I know some will say they can be themselves in Texas, and that’s great, I’m just saying I never felt like I could there.

    What I Actually Miss

    If I’m being completely honest, there’s only one thing I truly miss about Texas…

    Family.

    My wife and I have two of our sons, a daughter-in-law, and soon a grandson here in New Mexico. But our oldest son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter are still in Texas. So are my parents and extended family. My wife’s family are in Texas and North Carolina.

    Trips back to visit are getting harder as we get older, no doubt about that. So yes, proximity to family is the only thing I really, truly miss.

    Home

    Life is finite. None of us knows how much of it we really have. So I think it’s important, crucial even, to love where you live. I have family who genuinely love Texas, and I’m glad they’re happy there.

    I never was.

    Even enduring the hell that was benzo withdrawal, I can honestly say I’ve never been happier in my life than I am here in New Mexico. I know what joy feels like now. I only wish we had come here sooner, but I don’t waste time regretting that. I’m just grateful we are here now.

    Wherever you call home, I sincerely hope you’re happy there. It’s important.

    Amituofo
    ~Buck

  • Selective Moral Outrage

    I’ve got to be really open right now.

    I’ve been carrying something heavy since Sunday, and trying to push it down hasn’t worked. It’s started to make me feel physically unwell, which tells me I need to write about it despite risk of backlash. I’m honestly bewildered by what I’ve been seeing.

    So many people are furious about the Super Bowl halftime show, about dancing they didn’t like, songs sung in Spanish, things they call “inappropriate.” There are even officials calling for investigations.

    And at the very same time, we’re learning more and more about rich and powerful men abusing children. That breaks my heart.

    People are up in arms over a few minutes of music and movement, but strangely quiet when it comes to children being harmed. I don’t understand how that happens.

    I don’t understand how cultural discomfort or moral outrage over a performance can be louder than compassion for victims. I don’t understand how we’ve arrived at a place where twerking provokes more anger and more response than exploitation of children.

    When outrage is selective like this, it stops being about morality and starts being about comfort and/or political identity. If people reserve their loudest voices for performances but not for predators, something is deeply wrong in the priorities.

    For me, this isn’t political. It’s human.

    Children deserve protection. Victims deserve to be heard. Accountability should matter more than aesthetics or “loyalty” to any political party.

    I don’t want to write this with cruelty or hatred. I don’t think that helps anything. But I also don’t think silence helps either. Peace doesn’t mean pretending things are okay when they definitely aren’t. It means caring enough to speak.

    I’m just one person, walking my own healing path with one voice, trying to stay compassionate in a confusing world. But I know this much… If people can get loud about a halftime show, we can get louder about protecting children!

    And I hope we do.

    Amituofo
    ~Buck

  • What Conversations Have Taught Me

    Something I’ve noticed since getting clean is how much I love good conversations. I learn so much just by listening to people.

    I don’t remember ever having conversations like this before. I think there are two reasons for that. One, when I was drinking or taking pills I wasn’t very interested in listening, I was too angry and shut down, too closed off. And two, I just didn’t have access to this kind of diversity before we moved to Santa Fe.

    Where I used to live in Texas, especially the rural area we were in, things were pretty homogeneous… backgrounds, beliefs, politics, religion. Here, where I live now in New Mexico, I’m surrounded by people from wildly different walks of life. And I find that incredibly healing and hopeful.

    I’ve talked with people who’ve gotten sober and clean. I’ve talked with people who never turned to alcohol or drugs but had to overcome deep prejudice or hardship. I’ve talked with people who walked away from what a lot of people would call “powerful” lives in places like New York City or Los Angeles so they could live quieter, more grounded lives here.

    Their stories are fascinating. A lot of them are deeply inspiring.

    One of my favorite examples is right next door to us. Our neighbors are two older gay men who’ve been together almost forty years. We absolutely love them because they’re some of the kindest, best neighbors we’ve ever had. But I can’t help but think how different their experience might have been where we used to live. Here, they feel safe. They feel welcome. And that matters more than I can put into words. I’ve listened to their stories about how they’ve been treated in other places, and it makes me happy that they are happy here.

    I’m not knocking the place I grew up or spent most of my adult life in. I’ve moved past the anger and resentment I once carried for that place. I’m just being honest about my experience. When I lived there, I assumed that’s what most of the country was like because that’s all I ever saw or heard. Living here has shown me how much I was missing.

    I don’t think we can grow beyond what we already know unless we’re exposed to people who are different from us. Getting clean opened a whole new world for me, but listening to people is what’s helping me learn how to live happily in it.

    One common theme I hear in these conversations is pain, and overcoming that pain. Addiction, prejudice, abuse, violence, loss. And then the slow, courageous work of moving forward anyway. What touches me most is how many people manage to do that without becoming hard or bitter.

    Sometimes people fight back tears while telling their stories. But almost always, the conversations end with smiles, with laughter… with hope.

    I love that!

    And I’m grateful, deeply grateful, for every person who’s willing to share their story with me, and for every conversation that reminds me how human we all really are.

    Amituofo
    ~Buck

  • A Single Thought, A Single Memory

    A few nights ago I had one of the roughest nights and days I’ve had since acute withdrawal.

    I’ve had waves before, the sudden returns of withdrawal symptoms, but none as intense as this one. Thankfully they’re fewer and farther apart now, but this one hit really hard. I think it started with a nightmare the night before. Even now, I sometimes have vivid dreams, intense nightmares, about things from my past. The kind that wake me with a racing heart, feeling like I can’t breathe, and just feeling sick.

    This one lingered all through the next day. Then came another sleepless night. By the second day, I was a mess.

    I laid down hoping to rest, my heart still beating too fast from exhaustion and anxiety. I tried focusing on my breathing. Then a memory surfaced, something tied to that nightmare, and in response to that one single thought, my heart rate jumped dramatically. I watched it happen in real time. My body reacting instantly to one thought, to one memory.

    I got up because I knew there was no chance of sleep or even a nap with my heart racing like that. My wife suggested I meditate. Honestly, meditation hadn’t even crossed my mind. My nervous system was in survival mode, replaying old trauma. But I listened to her and sat down anyway.

    It took much longer than usual to settle because of my heart rate, but I stayed seated on the cushion.

    And it paid off.

    After a long meditation session, I was able to get back to my normal routine. That night, I slept better than I have in years. The next morning my wife said, “I’ve only seen you sleep that well a handful of times our entire marriage.” We’ve been married 38 years if that tells you how rarely I sleep that well.

    I share this because it really drove home how powerful our thoughts are. Our thinking shapes our experience in very real, physical ways. This whole episode started with a memory that led to a nightmare, followed by another memory that made everything worse and prolonged the suffering.

    Not everyone has trauma that causes these kinds of cascading spirals. But those who do probably know exactly what I’m talking about.

    A lot of us turned to alcohol or drugs to numb those thoughts, feelings, and memories. I did. First alcohol, then benzos. That cost me decades.

    But even without trauma, we can all see how thoughts affect our lives. If we constantly take in things that upset or overwhelm us, it shows up in our bodies and our moods. On the other hand, when we make an effort to engage with things that support our well-being, that matters too.

    That single memory that made my heart race even faster showed me how quickly things can spiral. The meditation session that calmed me showed me the other side of that coin, how changing where we put our attention can be healing.

    I’m not saying this is easy. And I’m definitely not saying traumatic memories or panic responses are “all in your head.” Please don’t ever listen to someone who dismisses your experiences.

    I live with PTSD. I know from experience what panic attacks, anxiety, and depression feel like. The body remembers trauma, even when we consciously know we’re safe in the present moment.

    What I am saying is that when our nervous system goes into panic, we still have tools. Sometimes it starts with something as simple, and as hard, as coming back to the breath.

    That recent wave knocked me off the rails for a couple of days. But I came back. I didn’t reach for alcohol. I didn’t try to figure out how to get some pills just to get through it. I listened to my wife. I meditated. And slowly, my system settled.

    If something like this happens to you, please talk to someone you trust. Please remember that our bodies affect our thoughts, and our thoughts affect our bodies. I don’t pretend to have universal answers, what works for me may not work for someone else. Please do whatever helps you feel grounded and safe (just not drugs or alcohol).

    If you’d like, feel free to share in the comments what helps you. You never know, it might be exactly what someone else out there needs to hear.

    That’s what this blog is about. I share my experiences in the hope that something here might help someone else.

    If you’re struggling right now, please know you’re not alone.

    Amituofo
    ~Buck

  • Miracles

    Do you believe in miracles?

    If you do, what qualifies as a miracle in your view? A lot of people think of miracles as something enormous, events so extraordinary they seem to defy all known laws of nature. That’s certainly one way to understand the word, and for a long time, that’s how I understood it too.

    But now I believe that miracles can also be small. Or maybe they only seem small until we really notice them.

    During acute withdrawal, making it through another 24 hours became a miracle for me. There were times I really didn’t know if I was going to make it. Life stopped being measured in years and narrowed down to days, sometimes hours, sometimes minutes. That experience changed my perspective in a way nothing else ever has.

    Now, more healed but still healing, I see miracles everywhere.

    A beautiful sunset feels like a miracle. The way the mountains heal me is a miracle. Stepping outside into the quiet night air, breathing deeply, seeing the moon and stars, that’s a miracle. Seeing my granddaughter smile is a miracle. Simply being here, alive, breathing, that is a miracle.

    Please don’t think I’m using the word “miracle” lightly. I’m not. I mean it with all the weight and wonder that word is meant to carry. Thich Nhat Hanh once said, “The miracle is to walk on the green Earth,” and I believe that with my whole heart now.

    My sobriety is a miracle. Every time someone finds their way out of addiction, it’s a miracle worth honoring. No one wakes up one day and decides they want to be an addict. No child dreams of growing up to struggle that way. The stories that lead people into addiction, and the things that happen while trapped there, are heartbreaking.

    And when we finally get sober or clean, we don’t get to erase those stories. We carry them. But we carry them differently now. With tools. With support. With clarity. With the ability to face life as it is, without numbing ourselves away from it.

    You don’t have to be in recovery to understand this. Anyone who has struggled, anyone who has been overwhelmed, anyone who has felt worn down by life knows how easy it is to miss the miracles happening all around us.

    They’re there, in sunrises and sunsets, in mountains and oceans, in cool night air, in moments of laughter, in simply making it through a hard day.

    There’s no need to wait for a world-shaking event that defies physics. The miracles are already here. They show up for us every day. All we have to do is slow down enough to notice them, and show up for them in return.

    Amituofo
     ~Buck

  • Out Of The Mouths Of Babes And A Coin

    “Out of the mouth of babes…” That phrase has been on my mind the last couple of days.

    During a video call with my oldest son, my daughter-in-law, and my little granddaughter, she suddenly asked, “Why do you have those, Pops?” while pointing at my face. I thought she meant my reading glasses, so I answered, “Because I need them to see.” She shook her head and said, “No, those!”

    My son and I thought maybe she meant my beard and mustache, but that wasn’t it either. She was getting frustrated that we didn’t understand. Then she pointed to her own cheekbones beneath her eyes and said, “THOSE!”

    That’s when we realized she meant my tattoos. I have tattoos under each eye on my cheekbones. I honestly didn’t know how to answer her. She’d never asked about them before, even in person, much less over a video call. So I just said, “Well, I don’t really have a good answer for you.”

    There’s no simple way to explain those tattoos to a little child. Thankfully, my son stepped in and told her, “They’re art.” She understands art, and that satisfied her.

    The saying about children speaking honestly and without filters is absolutely true. But her question made me sad. I wasn’t expecting that, and I couldn’t have been prepared for how it made me feel.

    She doesn’t know anyone else with facial tattoos, or neck tattoos, or hand and finger tattoos. And thinking back to when I got most of mine brought up memories from a time in my life that wasn’t very healthy or stable.

    Not everyone struggling with addiction gets tattoos, of course. But a lot of us do, and in conversations with others in recovery, a lot of those tattoos were done when we weren’t in good places emotionally or spiritually. It made me ask myself something honestly… Do I regret my tattoos?

    The truth is, yes, most of them I do regret. Some I don’t regret as much, but others I keep covered, and hope someday to have professionally covered or changed. Like many things from my decades in addiction, they carry memories from darker times. Very dark times. But recovery teaches us something important, we can’t live in regret. We have to keep moving forward.

    On the back of my one year recovery coin, it says, “Like a tree, we must learn to shed our past, grow new branches, and reach for the light.”

    I carry that coin with me. At least once a day I hold it in my hands and press it to my heart and just hold it there. It comforts me in a way that’s hard to explain. To someone who hasn’t walked this road, it may seem like just a coin. But to me, it represents healing. Healing mentally, physically, and spiritually.

    A lot of people in recovery talk about addiction as being a spiritual wound or emptiness, and that healing often requires something deeper than willpower alone. That’s why groups like AA and NA speak about a “higher power.” Each person understands that in their own way, but the idea is that we don’t have to fight addiction alone. That we can’t fight addiction alone.

    Still, my granddaughter’s innocent question caught me off guard. I felt ashamed. Not because she meant anything by it, she was just curious, but because those tattoos remind me of who I was back then. Most days I forget they’re even there unless I see my reflection or notice someone reacting to them, looking at me warily.

    As I write this, I admit I’m emotional. I admit I am crying as I write this. I never want my granddaughter, or my grandson who will soon arrive, to think their Pops is a bad person. And remembering the place I was in when I got those tattoos brings back very painful memories.

    But here is the important part… I am healing. I am moving forward.

    Next year, I’ll get a two year coin. And really, it isn’t just the years that matter, it’s every single day! Every day of recovery and healing is worth celebrating. When substances no longer control your life, there is a kind of freedom that feels almost miraculous.

    And that is something to be grateful for.

    I’m grateful I’m still here so my granddaughter could even ask that question. I’m grateful for my family. And I’m grateful for that little coin I still hold to my heart every day.

    And tonight, I’ll hold it there again, in gratitude.

    Amituofo
    ~Buck

  • Remembering Our Shared Humanity

    It’s sad that we’ve reached a point where even mentioning religion or beliefs can immediately raise defenses and trigger anger. That isn’t what this is about. This is about kindness, and about remembering our shared humanity.

    I’ve been following the monks who are walking across the United States for peace. If I had to describe what they’re doing in one word, it would be inspiring. They’ve walked through rain and snow, stepped on broken glass and nails, dealt with illness and exhaustion, and they just keep going. Not for attention or argument, but for peace. There’s something deeply moving about that kind of dedication.

    Recently, though, something happened that stirred up a lot of anger online. A pastor shared that when organizers asked if the monks could sleep on the church floor for a night, his first answer was no because their beliefs were so different. Later, after speaking with church elders, the answer became yes, and the monks were welcomed.

    But what people seem to be focusing on is the initial refusal, and many online reactions have been full of anger and outrage. Watching all of this unfold made me pause, because the anger surrounding the situation feels like the opposite of what the monks are walking for.

    And I understand where some of that anger might come from. Many people have painful experiences connected to religion or churches. I carried a lot of anger myself for many years, often without even knowing exactly why. Back then, anger just felt like my normal state.

    Getting sober and coming off benzos forced me to face a lot of that. These days my head is clear, and I find I don’t want to live in anger anymore. Life feels too short and too precious. To me, this situation isn’t about one religion versus another. It’s about how we treat people who believe differently than we do.

    If someone is hungry, feed them. If someone is cold or tired, help them. Kindness shouldn’t depend on politics, religion, nationality, or anything else.

    What strikes me is that many spiritual traditions, including Christianity and Buddhism, share this same idea of compassion and hospitality. Different paths, same reminder… take care of one another.

    So what am I really trying to say here?

    Not to preach. Not to lecture. Just to say that I wish we could slow down and treat each other with a little more kindness. Cruelty and outrage seem to be everywhere lately, and it wears on all of us whether we realize it or not. And to those upset on behalf of the monks, maybe it’s okay to just breathe and step back a little. The monks themselves didn’t seem offended. Their walk is about peace, not confrontation.

    Maybe the best thing any of us can do is try, in our own small ways, to practice goodwill where we are. We don’t all have to agree. But we can still remember we’re all human beings sharing the same road, this same Earth.

    As someone I deeply respect once said, there is no way to peace, peace is the way.

    Amituofo
     ~Buck

  • How Are You Doing, Really?

    I’ve noticed something lately. A lot of people, including family, friends, and honestly, myself too, seem to be carrying a lot of anxiety and sadness right now. Everyone seems to feel just… stretched thin. So I want to ask a simple question, how are you doing, really?

    You don’t have to answer publicly if you don’t want to. If you’d rather keep it private, you can always message me, whether that’s through Facebook, Bluesky, or the contact page here on the blog. Sometimes just having someone ask, and mean it, can matter a lot.

    Most of us are already carrying so much even during “normal” days. When something extra gets added on top of that, it can tip things from manageable to overwhelming pretty fast. The weather, the news, even something as small as catching a cold can suddenly feel like too much.

    For me lately, it’s been a combination of a health worry and what’s been going on in our country. The health issue isn’t catastrophic, it’s just one of those things that gets more noticeable when stress is high. As for the news, I don’t actively follow it. I avoid it as much as I can. But some events are unavoidable, no matter how carefully you manage or curate your attention. And when those sort of events, those headlines break through, they can hit hard.

    When things start to feel like that for me, I’ve learned I need a kind of “rescue plan.” Something, or more often, a few small things, that helps calm my nervous system before everything spirals. I had to learn this just to survive benzo withdrawal, and it turns out those same tools are still helping me now.

    I have a few daily practices that are non-negotiable for me. Meditation is one of them. I know it sounds cliché, but I’ve learned the hard way that I need it to stay steady. I also go to the gym every day, eat as well as I reasonably can, and spend time in prayer. These aren’t things I do because I’m disciplined or virtuous, I do them because I feel the difference when I don’t.

    When stress ramps up, I don’t drop those practices, I lean into them a little more. I’ll meditate longer. I’ll spend more time studying or researching things that interest me, because that kind of focused curiosity is calming for me. And sometimes, honestly, I’ll just play a favorite game. It may sound silly, but it helps. For me, it comes down to keeping my mind from being consumed by worry, staying connected to my spiritual life, and doing what I can to take care of my body.

    If you’re feeling stressed too, one gentle suggestion, not like some sort of a “command”, is to see if you can take your focus off whatever’s weighing on you, even briefly. I know that’s easier said than done. But if the stress is coming from current events or constant news consumption, maybe a pause would help. Not forever. Just a break.

    I’ve written before about how cutting news out of my life has helped me, but even stepping away temporarily can make a difference too. And if you’re a spiritual person, it might help to shift your attention away from the noise and back toward the practices or beliefs that ground you.

    One last thing that’s helped me more than I expected is helping someone else. Nothing grand or dramatic. Something small. Holding a door. Helping someone carry groceries. My family and I have started putting together small care bags, water, rain ponchos, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and handing them out to people who need them. Sometimes we’ll buy food and give that out too.

    That’s just one example. You don’t have to do anything like that. The point isn’t the specific act, it’s the way helping others softens the heart. Stress has a way of hardening us if we let it. Small acts of kindness can gently push back against that.

    I hope something here has been helpful, even a little. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, I hope you can find whatever brings you some steadiness. And if you need to reach out, please do, to someone you trust. If you don’t have anyone like that right now, I’ll help in whatever way I realistically can.

    Peace. Because I think we could all use some.

    Amituofo
     ~ Buck

  • When Silence Stops Feeling Like Peace

    I’ve always tried to keep this blog free of politics. That choice is intentional. We live in a world saturated with outrage, division, and headlines designed to keep us in a constant state of alarm. My writing has been meant to be a place of refuge from all that. A place to breathe, to reflect, to remember what it means to be human.

    But there are moments when silence no longer feels like peace.

    Over the past days, I’ve watched events unfold in Minnesota that have left me deeply shaken. A man named Alex Pretti lost his life in an incredibly disturbing violent way. Video footage, witness accounts, and official statements from federal authorities do not seem to line up. I’m not writing as an expert, a journalist, or an authority on what “really” happened. I’m writing as a human being who watched another human being die, and who felt something inside me say, this matters. This is too much.

    Alex Pretti was an ICU nurse. Someone who spent his life caring for others in their most vulnerable moments. Whatever else may be argued, that is a fact that deserves to be mentioned and honored. A life like that is not abstract. It’s not a statistic. It is a story that now ends far too soon.

    This is not about politics for me. It’s about the sacredness of life. It’s about power and accountability. It’s about the deep unease that arises when institutions meant to protect life appear to act without any transparency, and when explanations feel evasive rather than honest.

    I don’t pretend to know all the facts, but I know what I saw. I do know how it felt to watch footage where a man lay dying while others stood by or counted bullet holes. I do know how it felt to see what looked like celebration in the aftermath of a killing (another agent clapping). And, I know that something in me, shaped by my faith, by my recovery, by my suffering, by compassion, could not just simply look away.

    I want to say this clearly, questioning the use of force is not hatred. Asking for accountability is not extremism. Grieving a life lost is not disloyalty. These are human responses, not political ones.

    I am also aware that some people I love see these events very differently. That reality is painful. But love does not require silence when conscience is stirred, and conscience does not require cruelty to be honest.

    My Buddhist practice has taught me something simple yet difficult, to bear witness without turning away. To see suffering and not immediately harden into ideology or rage. To let grief speak before opinions do. To ask, gently but firmly, what kind of world we are becoming, and what kind of people we are choosing to be.

    I am not calling for vengeance. I am not calling for choosing sides. I am calling for truth, restraint, and respect for human dignity. Values that don’t belong to any one party or belief system.

    If that means I lose readers who are comfortable with violence or dismissiveness of human life, I accept that. This space was never meant to be comfortable at the cost of compassion. It was meant to be honest.

    I still believe in peace. I still believe in refuge. But peace does not come from pretending that injustice doesn’t hurt us. Sometimes peace begins by saying, quietly and clearly, this is not okay.

    May we remember that every life is sacred.
     May we resist becoming numb.
     May we choose humanity, even when it costs us something.

    Amituofo
     ~Buck

  • Being Peace

    ____________________________________________________________________________________________________
     Note: I wrote this 2 days ago, before what happened in Minneapolis yesterday. I had planned on publishing it yesterday but didn’t. I’m publishing it now, in the hope that it may help anyone who is feeling overwhelmed by the weight of the world these days. I know it’s inadequate. But it’s all I have to offer, so I offer it freely. What I wrote isn’t about politics, I don’t “do politics”. It’s simply about healing and peace.
     ————————————————————————————————————————

    What’s something that brings you real peace, day in and day out? Not a vacation kind of peace, or a once in a while type thing, but something that actually steadies you in life.

    I don’t think peace has to be elaborate. At least, it hasn’t been for me. Most of the peace I’ve found doesn’t come with bells and whistles or complicated rituals. It shows up in the small and ordinary things like gratitude, prayer, meditation, a kind word offered without thinking too hard about it.

    In my support group, I hear a lot of real life stories about how simply passing along the kindness we’ve been shown ends up being deeply healing. And that’s not just a recovery thing. Every one of us, at some point, has been helped by someone else. Maybe through a smile, a conversation at the right moment, or something much bigger that changed the direction of our lives forever.

    One of the things I try to practice these days, especially as I continue healing from benzos, is what I think of as being peace. I’ve written before about how peace begins with finding peace within, but for me it doesn’t stop there. Being peace means letting it move outward, into how I think, how I speak, and how I treat people. In that sense, peace becomes something active, something lived. Peace becomes a verb.

    Something that’s really struck me over time is that I’ve never met a rude or mean addict who was genuinely in recovery. Not once. Everyone I’ve met on this path has been kind, supportive, and trying to do better each day. Trying to heal.

    NA talks about how there’s a stereotype people often have of who “belongs” in recovery, and while that image fits some people, it misses a whole lot of others. The truth is, people in recovery are parents, professionals, students, artists, just regular human beings. And yes, some of us have tattoos. Some of us have been in jail or prison. I’m one of those people. I have tattoos on my face, neck, hands, and arms. I’ve been in jail. I’m also very aware that when I walk into a grocery store or meet someone new, their first impression of me is probably shaped by how I look. The tattoos.

    Because of that, I make a conscious effort to let what’s in my heart, the peace, the kindness, and the respect, speak louder than my appearance. I want to be seen for who I am now, not for assumptions or for who I used to be. For me, that’s also part of being peace.

    I’ve met people whose bodies are almost completely covered in tattoos, who’ve lived incredibly hard lives, and who are among the kindest, most genuine people I know. They laugh easily. They help freely. You can feel their kindness right away.

    And honestly, even people who’ve never struggled with addiction, who’ve lived what looks like a “clean” and “perfect” life from the outside, everyone has something they regret. Something they wish they’d done differently. It may not be as heavy, but it’s there. I’ve learned how important it is not to get stuck in the past, mine or anyone else’s. I can’t be peace if I’m living back there.

    There have been a couple of people who couldn’t accept my recovery, who could only see me as who I was years ago. All I could say was, “Don’t keep looking for me in the past, I’m not there anymore.” Then I let them pass peacefully out of my life. It wasn’t easy, but sometimes being peace means protecting the life you’re trying to build now.

    Whatever practice helps you create peace, whatever helps you be peace, I hope you keep it close and dear. The world needs that. It needs people who’ve lived, who’ve struggled, and who’ve learned compassion the hard way.

    The world needs you.

    Amituofo
     ~Buck